Operation Death Knell
by JJ Rust
Summary: AU. It's 1963. The height of the Cold War. The KGB have a plan to use Godzilla to destroy the U.S. It's up to an unlikely cadre of historical figures to prevent Communist domination of the world.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_I do not own Godzilla. Some of the characters in this story are actual historical figures._

_THE KREMLIN_

_MOSCOW, USSR_

_JANUARY, 1963_

He'd been planning this for two years. Two years of recruiting, of bribing, of making promises, of creating a base of support to catapult him into the one job he coveted more than any other.

Head of the KGB.

The only thing Yuri Andropov needed was the right opportunity to set his plan into motion. That opportunity presented itself when the damn Americans forced them to remove their nuclear missiles from Cuba.

Andropov stared through his spectacles at the cherubic form of Nikita Khrushchev, ensconced behind his highly polished wooden desk, index finger on his cheek, middle finger under his chin, listening intently to Andropov's presentation.

" . . . our biologists have also documented incidents during the 1959 attack on Osaka and the 1961 attack on Jiaxing where the creature halted its rampages and followed large flocks of birds away from those cities."

"But why would it follow birds?" asked the General Secretary. "To eat them?"

"Perhaps. Our biologists also have another theory. There have been a few paleontologists who suggest dinosaurs may, in some way, be descended from birds."

"Birds turning into reptiles? It sounds like the sort of insanity the capitalists would spew."

"I initially thought that as well, Comrade General Secretary. But the evidence from these past attacks indicates there is something to this theory."

Khrushchev grunted and slid his chair closer to his desk. "And these scientists you talked to. This device of theirs can actually lead the creature wherever they desire."

"They assured me it will work." _And if it doesn't, they'll all earn one-way trips to the gulags._

Khrushchev lowered his eyes, studying his desk in thought. Andropov just stared at him, maintaining his usual stony expression. The seemingly emotionless mask hid a bubbling cauldron of hope and anxiety. In a society that prided itself on the conventional, this was certainly a most unconventional plan. So many things could go wrong. But if it worked . . .

"The Americans will not be able to trace it back to us?" asked Khrushchev.

"_Nyet."_ Andropov shook his head. "The creature is akin to a force of nature. No one has any idea where it will appear and how much destruction it will cause. And from what we've seen of the Japanese and Chinese and Korean responses to it, no conventional weapon can harm it."

"And what of nuclear weapons, Comrade Party Secretariat?"

"The Americans will never detonate one on their own soil. Look at all the controversy caused by the fallout from their tests in the Nevada desert. President Kennedy will not have the courage to drop an atomic bomb near Los Angeles or San Francisco."

"If he learns we are actually responsible for this, he could have one of those bombs dropped on Moscow." Khrushchev flexed his jaw back and forth.

"As with any plan, Comrade General Secretary, there are risks. But let us also look at the risks of letting the United States stay on its present course. It is starting to make inroads in Southeast Asia to halt the spread of Marxist-Socialism. They are putting much effort into being the first on the Moon. One can only imagine how we will be affected if they establish permanent bases there and exploit the Moon's resources. And now that we can no longer threaten them from Cuba . . ."

Khrushchev's face twisted in annoyance. He didn't like the Cuban situation to be brought up around him. Andropov doubted the man would ever get over the embarrassment of having to remove their ballistic missiles from the island and scurry home like beaten dogs.

In fact, Andropov banked on Khrushchev's embarrassment to get the leader of the USSR to approve his plan.

"Do we even know where the creature is?"

"_Da_, Comrade General Secretary." If he hadn't known that critical piece of information, Andropov wouldn't have bothered presenting this plan. "One of our Juliett-class submarines picked up the creature on sonar in the Micronesia chain two weeks ago. By all indications, it's still there."

Khrushchev sat in silence, examining his folded hands. Andropov didn't move as he observed him. Any other man would probably be fidgeting from impatience, waiting for Khrushchev to say either _da _or _nyet._ But Andropov had been patient for two years as he put this plan together. He could wait another few seconds, or even minutes, for Khrushchev to make up his mind.

"Very well, Comrade Party Secretariat. You will have whatever resources you need at your disposal on my personal authority."

"Thank you, Comrade General Secretary." Andropov kept his voice flat, though his insides exploded in elation.

"Carry out your Operation: Death Knell immediately. If we are fortunate, Comrade, by the end of the year we will have truly buried the Americans."

Andropov left Khrushchev's office, his chest puffed out. He strutted down the corridor, brown-uniformed sentries snapping at attention as he passed. He glanced at the soldiers, allowing himself a smile. Andropov thought of all the generals and admirals who boasted about their tanks and bombers and ships, and how they would crush the capitalist armies.

Fools, all of them. In the end, the country wouldn't need its military to crush the Americans and achieve world socialism. All it would need was just one large animal.

A large animal named Godzilla.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	2. Chapter 2

_SOVIET TRAWLER _BYSSA

_20 MILES OFF THE CALIFORNIA COAST_

_MARCH, 1963_

Captain Igor Geiyarnoff took another drag of his cigarette and stared out the bridge window. He released the smoke with a groan.

_Now what does the damn KGB_ _want us to do?_

Those bastards had the _Byssa_ sailing in circles since they left Vladivostok. Go southwest, then north, stop near the Line Islands, then proceed east.

He was used to having the KGB dictate where they wanted him to sail _Byssa_. This time, however, it had gotten ridiculous.

_I bet it has something to do with that machine._

Geiyarnoff's bearded, haughty face sagged. He'd never seen anything like the large cylindrical device they had loaded into the cargo hold. The KGB agent in charge of it wouldn't tell him what it was for.

_Why should they tell me? I'm only the captain of this ship._

Despite his annoyance, he did what any loyal son of Mother Russia would do. He carried out his orders. So if the sons of whores from the KGB wanted him to stop twenty miles from San Diego, he would. _Byssa_ remained in international waters, so the Americans couldn't tell him to go away no matter how much they bitched.

All sorts of theories raced through his mind. Perhaps the machine would interfere with the Americans' communications or radar.

_Or maybe it is doing something as mundane as taking readings of the ocean floor._

Whatever the case, he'd followed his orders. Now the KGB could screw around with the damn thing to their hearts' content.

With nothing to do on the bridge, Geiyarnoff decided to make his rounds, check on the crew, make sure the equipment was in order. The KGB may be in charge of the machine, but _Byssa_ remained his ship.

He headed for the door when a skinny young man with close-cropped brown hair cried out, "Sonar contact! Bearing zero-four-seven."

Geiyarnoff stepped over to Nerov, the sonar operator. "American submarine?"

"_Nyet._ It's too large. I don't know what . . ." Nerov's mouth hung open silently. He pressed the headphones tight against his ears. "Captain. I think . . . I think it's a biological."

Geiyarnoff watched the color fade from Nerov's face. The captain spun around and headed outside to the bridge wing.

The cigarette slipped from his mouth as he saw the huge white wake slicing through the water, heading directly for the _Byssa._ A solid object stood out in the middle of the froth. A dark green hump, with some kind of jagged plate.

"Full power to engines!" Geiyarnoff screamed to the helmsman inside. "Hard left rudder!"

An explosion of water shook the very air. He whirled around.

Geiyarnoff's lungs seized at the sight before him. The dark mass towered over him, casting a shadow over the entire ship.

His legs gave out. Geiyarnoff collapsed on the bridge wing, looking up at the creature, mouth agape.

The roar, a high-pitched, ominously melodic roar, made him tremble. He tried to take a breath. Fear prevented that. All he could do was stare.

And the creature stared back. Its white, malevolent eyes locked on him

Geiyarnoff screamed and wet himself.

A large, reptilian hand rose, then came down with unbelievable speed. A horrendous crash tore through the air. Geiyarnoff was catapulted through the air. He shrieked as he spun around, catching brief glimpses of the severed bow and stern of _Byssa_ pointing at the sky.

Geiyarnoff heard Godzilla roar seconds before he hit something hard. Everything went dark.

**XXXXX**

_DESTROYER _USS DU PONT

_10 MILES FROM CORONADO_

Captain Trace Dennett sprinted up the metal steps to _Du Pont's_ bridge. Klaxons blared throughout the tight corridors of the Forrest Sherman-class destroyer, spurring the crew of 370 to their battle stations. His mind raced through various scenarios and responses, all of them revolving around a Ruski sub poking its nose too close to the naval bases in San Diego. What other reason could there be to sound general quarters?

Dennett threw open the door and stepped onto the bridge. Everyone had on their helmets and life jackets. He strode up to a stocky young man staring through the bridge windows with a pair of binoculars.

"Report," he ordered Lieutenant Bill Jackson.

The Officer of the Deck's mouth quivered for a few moments before he turned to Dennett. "Captain. I think you'd better see this for yourself."

Jackson handed him the binoculars. Dennett put them up to his eyes and scanned the horizon.

_Oh . . . my . . . God._

He lowered the binoculars, blinked, and looked through them again. His stomach collapsed. He'd seen the thing in newspapers and on TV. Now here it was, in front of him. My God he couldn't get over the size of it.

"That's really him, Sir?" Jackson's voice held a slight tremor. "That's Godzilla?"

Dennett drew a deep breath. He pushed down his shock and fear. They wouldn't do him any good right now.

"It is."

At that moment a short man with olive skin entered the bridge. Lieutenant Commander Dominic Vinchelli, _Du Pont's _executive officer.

"XO, contact S-D Naval Station. I'm sure they're aware of the situation. Let's see what they want us to do."

"Aye, Captain."

"Mister Jackson. Have all batteries stand-by. Helm. Lay in a course for Godzilla. Full speed."

The helmsman hesitated a moment before replying. "A-Aye, Captain."

Dennett forced himself not to rub the goosebumps sprouting on his arms. He knew what had happened to warships from Japan and China that had gone up against this monster. Most of them rested on the bottom of the ocean. Their guns had absolutely no effect on Godzilla. The damn lizard's skin had to be thicker than the armor on a dozen battleships. So what chance did he think the _Du Pont_ would have against it?

_Go for the eyes or the mouth. That might be its most vulnerable spot._

_Yeah. Like sniping with a five-inch gun is a piece of cake._

But what choice did he have? Godzilla was headed right for San Diego Bay, one of the most important pieces of real estate the Navy had. Beyond that were the hundreds of thousands of people who made San Diego their home . . . including his family.

Dennett couldn't just sit around wringing his hands. The U.S. Navy didn't pay him for that.

They paid him to defend the country.

He felt the destroyer surge under his feet. Godzilla loomed closer as he waded toward San Diego Bay.

Dennett barely contained a gasp when he saw the infamous jet of radioactive flame shoot out Godzilla's mouth. Two sailors behind him cried out, "Oh my God."

A fireball erupted along the shoreline. Another followed . . . another . . . another. Thick black smoke quickly rose into the air. Dennett pressed the binoculars to his face. Waves of fire swept over the buildings of the San Diego Naval Station. In the harbor he counted half-a-dozen ships in flames, including the carrier _Ranger._

Dennett clutched his binoculars so tightly his arms shook. Another jet of blue flame blew up an amphibious ship.

"Open fire as soon as we're in range!"

"Aye, Captain," Jackson replied.

Dennett watched as Godzilla waded ashore near Coronado. He turned toward North Island Naval Air Station just as two jets lifted off from the runway. F-8 Crusaders. Tracers streaked from their four nose-mounted 20mm cannons and thudded into the monster.

As Dennett expected, the rounds had no effect.

The Crusaders broke left. A burst of blue flame followed them. It missed the lead plane.

Its wingman disintegrated.

Godzilla turned toward the air station and unleashed its deadly breath. A rolling cloud of fire engulfed the base. Dozens of secondary explosions went off as jet fuel and munitions detonated.

"We're in gun range, Captain," Jackson announced.

"Tell the gunners to target the head and fire!"

Seconds later a deep _thud_ came from _Du Pont's _forward 5-incher. Dennett watched for an explosion on the monster's head.

It never happened.

The gun fired again and again. A ball of fire blossomed on Godzilla's left shoulder. It stomped through the blaze consuming North Island Naval Air Station and into the bay, heading directly for the airport.

_Du Pont's_ 5-incher banged away as the Crusader returned, peppering Godzilla with more 20mm rounds. The monster ignored the pinpricks and shot radioactive fire at the airport. A huge ball of fire rose into the air. The control tower teetered and fell. More fireballs erupted. Dennett saw flaming pieces of airplanes spiral into the air like out of control comets.

More jet fighters appeared. Stubby A-4 Skyhawks, probably from the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station. Flashes of orange flickered up and down Godzilla's enormous body as he took hits from 20mm cannon rounds and rockets.

The monster reared its head back and roared. Blue flame streaked into the sky. Skyhawks vanished in puffs of orange and black.

_Du Pont's_ 5-inch gun boomed again.

Seconds later brilliant sparks exploded across Godzilla's face.

"Yes!" Dennett cheered through clenched teeth.

The 5-incher scored another direct hit on Godzilla's head. And another. The creature stumbled.

"Yeah! We got 'im!" Jackson hollered. "We -"

Godzilla rotated his body toward the _Du Pont._

Dennett froze. The images of his wife Kelly and their 12-year-old daughter Jessica filled his mind. Fear for himself was replaced by fear they might be lost in the conflagration overwhelming San Diego.

_Please God, no! Take me, but let them live._

He kept staring through the binoculars, transfixed as a blue glow formed in Godzilla's mouth. The thumps of _Du Pont's_ 5-inch gun faded from his ears.

The jet of radioactive fire crossed the water. A quake went through the entire ship. Intense heat washed over Captain Dennett.

Oblivion followed.

**XXXXX**

_LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA_

Grigori Yazlov stood beside the paddy wagon with the logo of the San Diego Police Department and smiled. From this hill just outside La Jolla, he had a perfect view of the flames and smoke that blanketed San Diego. Every road leading out of the smoldering city was clogged by vehicles and refugees on foot. He wanted to laugh at the hardship these lazy capitalists now had to suffer.

_Though the way Godzilla is moving through the city, many of them won't suffer for long._

A chubby, balding man sidled up to the slender Yazlov.

"I think it's safe to say our little Godzilla whistle works." Dmitri Azatoya spoke with the Southern California dialect he perfected during KGB training.

Yazlov nodded. The larger device they placed aboard the _Byssa_ could send out its signal for 500 miles, good enough to lure Godzilla to the American West Coast. All the while the monster had been monitored by a Soviet sub, which would send course corrections to the trawler to guide it to San Diego.

Now Grigori and Dmitri would take over. The smaller device hidden in their fake paddy wagon had a range between 50 to 60 miles. Good enough for their purposes.

"So where to now?" Dmitri asked.

Grigori didn't take his eyes off the destruction in the distance, watching as Godzilla blasted another part of San Diego with his radioactive breath. "We head north for Camp Pendleton and El Toro. Then we'll have him raze some smaller, unimportant towns. The Americans aren't fools. They'll get suspicious if Godzilla is only destroying large cities and important military bases. After that, it'll be time for Godzilla to make his Hollywood debut."

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	3. Chapter 3

_ABOVE LOS ANGELES COUNTY, CALIFORNIA_

_Jeez, you'd think I was someone important._

Lt. Colonel Hal Moore gazed out the opening of the Bell 47's small cockpit. He squinted as the wind bracketed his face. The thumping of the rotorblades pounded his eardrums. Below him vehicles clogged every major road and highway in and around L.A.

_They're trying to get away from a monster, and I'm flying toward it._

Moore still couldn't believe they'd sent a helicopter to fetch him. He'd been evaluating a National Guard unit to see if it could be converted into an air assault battalion to augment existing active duty units when the Bell 47 landed.

"I have orders to fly you to the staging area at the Rose Bowl," the pilot had told him.

"Staging area for what?" Moore had asked the man. As he sat back in his seat, he sighed and shook his head, remembering the answer.

_Godzilla_

He still couldn't believe the beast was actually in the United States. Usually it seemed content to pick on Japan and China. Why the hell did it decide to cross three thousand miles of ocean to come here?

_And why is the Army so anxious to get me into the fight?_ His specialties consisted of infantry and airborne tactics, not fighting monsters.

Moore figured he'd have his answers in a couple minutes. Through the goldfish bowl canopy he spotted a white oval-shaped stadium sticking up amidst a sea of trees. As the chopper descended he scanned numerous military vehicles and tents dotting the parking lots and lawns surrounding the Rose Bowl.

A cloud of dust surrounded the helicopter as it touched down on a grassy clearing. Directly in front of him Moore saw the huge marquee with a red and green rose above the words _Rose Bowl._

"Thanks for the lift." He thumped the pilot on the arm and jumped out of the Bell 47. Moore bent at the waist as dust pelted his face. When he was far enough away he spat out the grimy taste and rubbed the particles out of his eyes.

"Colonel Moore!" An authoritative voice shouted over the noise of vehicle engines and helicopter rotors.

Moore looked to his left. His eyes widened for a moment when he noticed the craggy-faced man with two stars on his steel helmet.

"Lieutenant Colonel Harold Moore reporting as ordered, Sir." He snapped a salute to Major General Creighton Abrams.

The Army's Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations returned the salute and headed over to him. "I was told you were in the area." He shook Moore's hand vigorously. "Damn glad to have you on board, Colonel."

"Thank you, General, though I am a bit curious why you felt it necessary to have a helicopter come and get me."

"Shelve the modesty, Colonel." Abrams led him across the parking lot, stopping for a moment to allow a jeep to pass. "You're one of the brightest and most experienced soldiers within two hundred miles of Los Angeles. The kind of man I'm going to need for this battle."

"I assume you mean Godzilla."

Abrams nodded as they approached the entrance to the Rose Bowl. "That I do. The Pentagon put me in charge of the defense of Los Angeles. I was actually en route to Vietnam for a fact-finding tour on behalf of the Joint Chiefs when the damn lizard roasted San Diego. The Chairman figured since I was in the area, and since I have combat experience, I'd be the best man to lead."

"So where is Godzilla now?" Moore asked as the sentries at the main gate snapped to attention.

"Last report put him in Escondido. Probably doing to it what he did to San Diego, El Cajon and Lakeside."

Moore clenched his teeth, remembering the footage he saw on TV of Godzilla's first attack on Tokyo in 1955. The destruction he wrought on Japan's capital was greater than anything an armada of B-29s could have done in the Second World War. He closed his eyes and prayed for the souls of the thousands already dead.

_Thousands? Try tens of thousands. Probably hundreds of thousands._

He exhaled loudly, trying to force out his sorrow. He needed a clear head if he intended to fight this thing and reduce further loss of life. Mourning, as he learned the hard way in Korea, would have to wait until later.

Abrams led him to an elevator. After a quick trip up they headed for a conference room overlooking the rectangular field. Moore paused and stared out at the empty stadium. Pictures on TV and in magazines didn't do the Rose Bowl justice. The thing was huge!

_Probably looks even bigger because it's not jammed with about eighty thousand fans._

Moore forced himself to turn away. Field telephones sat upon the long conference table. Maps hung on every wall, mingling with black-and-white photos of past Rose Bowl games.

"What is it you need of me, Sir?"

Abrams folded his hands behind his back and gazed at Moore from across the table. "I don't think it's any secret Godzilla's attack took us completely by surprise. We're pretty much scrambling to put together an effective fighting force to take him on. Unfortunately, the majority of our heavy, active duty units are too far away to help us before Godzilla reaches Los Angeles County. We would have had the Marines from Twenty-Nine Palms up here, but the damn mutant lizard leveled the base right after it hit San Diego. So were cobbling together units with any active duty, reserve and Guard personnel we can find in the greater Los Angeles area. Hell, we're even bringing in ROTC cadets so we have enough warm bodies. All the TV and radio stations are also making announcements that all military personnel in the area should report to the Rose Bowl."

"That may be pretty tough, considering all the traffic jams I saw flying over here."

"Don't I know it." Abrams scowled. "It's made it a pain trying to get men and material here. I'm trying to see if we can use helicopters to transport troops and supplies here."

"Good idea, Sir. Unfortunately, we'd need bigger helicopters than the ones currently in our inventory, and a lot of them, to make that sort of supply train effective."

Abrams' mouth twitched as he regarded Moore. He then gave him a half grin. "Like I said, Colonel. You are one of the brightest soldiers around. Maybe when we get done blowing this damn lizard to hell and back, you can write up a recommendation for that for the Joint Chiefs."

"Yes, Sir." _That is, if I'm still around to write it up._

"Anyway, Colonel, I'm giving you command of one of our provisional battalions, designated Third Battalion." Abrams waved Moore to join him at his side. He then turned to a large map of Southern California. "My intention is to hit Godzilla _before_ he even gets to Los Angeles. A static defense would be pointless. Since we're dealing with an animal, we have no way of knowing where exactly he'll strike."

"Then can we be certain Godzilla will even come anywhere near L.A.?"

"A couple biologists I've talked to suspect he'll want to stay close to the sea. I'm no animal expert, but for now I'll have to take their word for it. At any rate, I plan on taking the fight to Godzilla. You don't win wars by sitting on your ass and letting the enemy come to you."

Moore nodded. He expected as much from Creighton Abrams, who was cut from the same mold as General Patton . . . just not as tyrannical as old Blood N' Guts.

The General withdrew a red marker from his breast pocket and drew a line from San Clemente northeast to San Bernardino. "I'm calling this the San Clemente Line. If Godzilla gets anywhere near it, we ride out to greet him."

"We've both seen how other militaries have fared against him. As good as we are, do we really stand a chance of stopping him?"

Abrams turned to him and sighed. "My honest opinion, Colonel. Unless God smiles on us and we hit him with a Golden BB, I seriously doubt it. At best we may be able to steer him away from L.A. Maybe force him into some less populated areas of the Colorado Desert. At worst, we buy the people of this city some extra time to evacuate."

Moore chewed the inside of his cheek. That wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. Still he appreciated Abrams' honesty. He preferred to go into battle with a realist than some "rah-rah" idiot who boasted to high Heaven how American military might would triumph over any foe. Guys like that usually weren't conducive to the long-term health of soldiers.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Enter," Abrams called out.

A tall, thickly-built young officer came in. Moore canted his head and furrowed his brow. The newcomer looked familiar.

"Captain Schwarzkopf reporting as ordered." He saluted.

Abrams returned the salute and turned back to Moore. "Colonel, this is your battalion's senior company commander. Captain Norman Schwarzkopf."

"I already know him, Sir. The captain here was one of my students when I was teaching infantry tactics at West Point."

"Well, if he took to even half of what you taught him, I think Third Battalion should be the best one I put in the field." Abrams grinned at Schwarzkopf.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." The young captain extended his hand to Moore. "It's an honor to serve under you, Colonel Moore."

"Glad to have you aboard, Captain."

"Captain Schwarzkopf. Please take Colonel Moore and get him acquainted with his new command."

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll talk to you later, Colonel."

Abrams shook Moore's hand. The Colonel then followed Schwarzkopf out the door.

"So, Captain. What's your overall impression of our new battalion . . . and don't sugarcoat it."

"I never intended to, Sir. To put it bluntly, this is a raw bunch we're taking into the field. Most of them are strangers who've just been thrown together. There's no unit cohesion, no _esprit de corps_, no familiarity with the other soldiers around them."

"Combat experience?"

Schwarzkopf snorted as they approached the elevator. "Most of them were in elementary school or junior high when Korea was going on. Plus a lot of them serve in support roles. Probably haven't fired a rifle since basic. We do have a few senior sergeants who saw action in Korea and World War Two. If the grunts listen to them, they _might_ do all right. And if you ask me, Colonel, that's a mighty big might."

The two men waited for the elevator doors to open and walked inside.

"How are we set for heavy weapons?" asked Moore.

Schwarzkopf's round face sagged. "Pardon my French, Sir, but trying to get supplies in here has become one major clusterfuck."

"General Abrams pretty much said the same thing, though in a less colorful way."

"Sorry, Colonel. But right now the emphasis is getting warm bodies to the Rose Bowl. A lot of these guys are walking in here without even a rifle. Now a few have shown up with hunting rifles from home just to make sure they're armed. Anyone with that sort of foresight I made a squad leader."

The elevator stopped. Schwarzkopf continued as they exited. "As for heavy weapons, we have four thirty caliber machine guns, two of which I had mounted on Jeeps. We also have two bazookas, a dozen or so rifle grenades and a recoilless rifle."

"That's it?" Moore halted and turned toward Schwarzkopf.

"Unfortunately, it is. I've sent a few of the men out to scrounge up anything else they can find."

Moore's face tightened in frustration. "We're going to need a lot more than that. Rifles won't do a damn bit of good against Godzilla." _I doubt bazookas and rifle grenades will either, but he might take notice of that more than an M-14._

"Hopefully the supply trucks will get through all the traffic jams around L.A. in time."

"Right now we don't have the luxury of counting on hope. We better see what we can get our hands on here."

"Yes, Sir."

Moore headed to the main gate, Schwarzkopf right behind him. Worry clawed at his insides and twisted his stomach. What he wouldn't give for the Russians or Chinese to be storming the beaches of Los Angeles. His inexperienced, under-armed battalion would certainly stand a better chance against a horde of Communist soldiers than against a single fire-breathing dinosaur.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Norman Schwarzkopf was actually a student of Hal Moore's while at West Point. In fact, Schwarzkopf credits Moore as the reason he went into the infantry upon after graduation._

_**NEXT: **__You won't believe who the next historical figure is that joins the fight against Godzilla._


	4. Chapter 4

_MORENO VALLEY, CALIFORNIA_

"_This is something for younger men to do, not you!"_

Jimmy Stewart gripped the steering wheel tighter as he replayed his wife's words in his head. Their argument had been short, loud and emotional. As soon as he heard about Godzilla's arrival in San Diego, he headed straight for the closet and pulled out his Air Force uniform.

Gloria was none too pleased. She reminded him of all the battles the Japanese and Chinese militaries had with the monster over the past eight years . . . every one of which ended badly.

"_I won't let you throw your life away for nothing."_

That had earned her an angry retort. Stewart wondered what his fans would think if they saw the consummate on-screen gentleman blow his stack.

"_You call protecting you, our children and millions of other people in Southern California nothing?"_ he had fired back at her.

In the end Gloria reluctantly agreed to take the kids and leave L.A. Not that he left her much choice as he'd been pulling out of the driveway when she agreed to his orders. He could still clearly picture the mixture of anger and worry in her face as he drove off.

_I hope that's not the last memory I ever have of her._

Stewart let out a relieved breath as he turned the car right. After all the detours and traffic jams, he'd finally arrived at his destination.

March Air Force Base.

He knew the radio had been announcing that all military personnel, both active duty and reserve, had to report to the Rose Bowl. But that was for the Army. He didn't do his fighting on the ground. He did it in the air.

Stewart slowed as he approached the front gate. A young man in combat fatigues walked up to his car, carrying an M-14 rifle.

"Brigadier General James Stewart. I'm responding to the current crisis."

The guard took a step back, eyes widened. Stewart groaned. Was the man's reaction from his rank or his matinee idol status?

He figured it to be the latter.

"Um . . . yes, Sir." The guard finally remembered to salute. "Please proceed to the Administration Building."

"Wouldn't you like to see my identification first?"

The veins in the guard's neck stuck out, his face twisted in embarrassment. Stewart prayed the man wouldn't say, "Everyone knows who you are."

"Oh. Yes, Sir. ID please."

Stewart pulled out papers. After a cursory examination, the guard waved him through.

The parking lot was overflowing. A few cars had actually parked on the lawn to the left side of the utilitarian-looking Admin Building. Stewart's car bounced over the curb and rolled to a stop next to another car.

Once inside the building, he strode up to the reception desk where a slender young woman with senior airman stripes sat. Stewart cranked an eyebrow. With her clear complexion and red hair in a bun, the woman reminded him a little of Maureen O'Hara.

After introducing himself, and enduring another look of awe, he said, "Is the base commander available? I want to do whatever I can to help out."

_So long as it involves dropping bombs, _he didn't add. He couldn't protect Gloria, the kids and everyone else in L.A. by sitting at a desk signing papers and answering phones.

"One moment, Sir. I'll get in touch with him."

Stewart waited fifteen minutes before a chubby man with receding black hair appeared.

"General Stewart? I'm General Archibald, commander of March Air Force Base."

Archibald didn't extend his hand. He also gazed at Stewart with barely disguised annoyance. Stewart fought to keep the frown off his face. He could practically read the man's mind.

_Great. A stupid actor playing flyboy looking to get even more famous._

Stewart took a deep breath, suppressing his anger. It wasn't the first time he'd been subjected to this reaction. And with Godzilla tearing up Southern California, he couldn't afford to dwell on it.

"My apologies for just showing up on your doorstep unannounced, General. But given the circumstances I figured you could use every warm body you can get. If you have a spot open in the cockpit, I can fill it."

"It's not like we have spare B-52s lying around to give anyone who just waltzes through the door." Archibald waved for Stewart to follow him. "And I have a million things that need doing before we can get one bomber off the ground and blow that ugly son-of-a-bitch to pieces."

"Any load I can take off you, General, I'll do it." Stewart grimaced for a moment. He wanted to fight, not shuffle paper.

_But if I can't get in a plane, I have to do something useful instead of sitting around and twiddling my thumbs._

"I'm expecting a call any minute from Strategic Air Command to find out what exactly they want us to do," Archibald said as they ascended the stairs to the second floor. "Even with Godzilla on the rampage, we still have to have B-52s on alert if the Russians try anything. Hmph! I bet they'd love to take advantage of this situation."

Stewart nodded as they proceeded down the corridor.

Archibald turned left and opened a door leading to a small conference room. "If you'd care to wait in here, General. As soon as I'm off the phone with SAC, I'll see where we can assign you to help out."

"Thank you."

Stewart entered the room. The door closed immediately behind him. Sighing, he fell into a chair and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After about forty-five minutes Stewart grunted and shot out of his chair. He paced the room, grumbling under his breath. Had Archibald forgotten about him? Or maybe the base commander deliberately wanted to keep him out of the way. Did he see him as a gloryhound? A rich movie star wanting to play a real-life hero?

Stewart snorted. That attitude aggravated him to no end. It was one of the reasons he rarely talked about his service during the Second World War. Most people would probably think he'd only bring up his bombing missions over the Third Reich to enhance his celebrity status. Couldn't they even consider the fact he hadn't gone to war as a publicity stunt? That he and others like Lee Marvin, Douglas Fairbanks, Junior and Ted Williams joined the armed forces out of a sense of duty?

That's what brought him to March Air Force Base. He was still in the Air Force Reserve. He still had an obligation to defend this country, whether it be from the Russians or a 400-foot-tall fire-breathing monster.

Stewart drew back the blinds and stared out the window at the B-52s parked along the runway. When he'd had enough of that he took to looking at his watch repeatedly. Nearly an hour had passed since Archibald shoved him into this room.

He debated with himself. Should he stay here and continue waiting for Archibald or take the initiative, march out of here, and find something productive to do? Brigadier General or not, this was still Archibald's command. He didn't want to go around the man's back. But neither did he want to stay cooped up in this darn room while Godzilla laid waste to Southern California.

After five minutes of mental back-and-forth, Stewart headed for the door. To heck with Archibald's feelings. He was a pilot. Pilots needed to be in the thick of the action. That's what they got paid for, after all.

Stewart got within inches of the door when it flung open. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding a blow to the nose.

General Archibald stood in the doorway. "Well, you're in luck, General Stewart. I do have something for you."

Stewart overlooked the fact Archibald didn't apologize for keeping him waiting all this time. He held his breath, anxious to hear what the base commander had in store for him.

"One of our pilots got hit by a Jeep on his way back from checking out his plane. Compound fractures to both legs, broken arm, ruptured spleen. He'll live, but he won't be flying any time soon.

"So strap on a flight suit, 'cause you're taking his place."

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Yes indeed, readers. For those not aware, __the__ Jimmy Stewart of "It's A Wonderful Life" fame did serve in the U.S. Air Force in real-life. He flew several bombing missions over Germany in WWII and went into the Reserves after the war, retiring from the service in 1968._

_**NEXT: **__Another historical figure joins the battle against Godzilla._


	5. Chapter 5

_ABOVE PALA, CALIFORNIA_

Lieutenant John McCain always wondered how he would do if he ever saw combat. Would he be scared? Would he be brave? Would he bring honor to his family's name, or would he shame it?

Even as his heart hammered and sweat cascaded over his cold body, he still didn't know the answer.

"Adjust heading zero-one-seven degrees left." The voice of his flight leader, Lieutenant Commander Griggs, filtered through his headphones.

McCain gently pressed the control stick of his A-1 Skyraider to the left. The brown and green landscape whipped below his big prop-driven plane. His wide eyes gazed at a row of hills in the distance . . . and the huge green mass beyond it.

Godzilla. Never could he have dreamed his first combat mission would be against an atomic bomb-spawned dinosaur.

Sunlight glinted off silvery objects swooping around the monster. Tracers and contrails streaked away from Navy A-4 Skyhawks and F-4 Phantoms. Small fireballs blossomed across Godzilla's scaly hide. The creature didn't seem to take notice . . . or so McCain thought until Godzilla lifted his head and breathed radioactive fire. Several jet fighters blew apart, their fiery wreckage spiraling toward the valley below.

McCain swallowed. _Is that going to happen to me?_ His brain screamed to turn the plane around and run. Another fear surfaced. The fear of living the rest of his life as a coward. Is that what he really wanted for the McCain naval legacy? His grandfather an admiral, his father an admiral . . .

And him a chickenshit?

He took great gulps of oxygen, trying to gain control of his fears.

_Remember your training. Remember the plan._

"Commence napalm strike," Griggs announced.

McCain's eyes stayed on his flight leader's Skyraider for a few seconds before darting up to Godzilla. God in Heaven, it was huge.

_Huge is an understatement._

So were words like massive and enormous.

McCain shuddered, never having felt so insignificant in his life.

Griggs' plane crossed within fifty feet of Godzilla. Two cylindrical tanks tumbled away from the wings. Seconds later a cloud of fire rolled over the landscape.

McCain's was the third plane in line. He dropped his napalm and banked hard right, out of Godzilla's line of fire.

He checked his rearview mirrors. An inferno raged in front of the monster.

It walked through it unfazed.

"Come around for second strike," Griggs ordered.

McCain and the three other Skyraiders circled around. He lined up the gun pipper on the monster's back, bristling with silvery armored plates. No way could he miss something that big. Holding his breath, he thumbed the fire button on his stick. Rockets flew out from under both wings, joining dozens of others from his Skyraider flight. Brilliant orange sparks sprang off Godzilla's back. For extra measure, McCain fired a couple bursts from his 20mm cannons.

It didn't slow down Godzilla at all. In fact, the monster started to turn around.

"Break! Break! Break!" Griggs hollered.

McCain pushed his Skyraider hard to the left. His heartbeat became deafening. Another sound cut through his thumping heart and droning engine. 

The roar of Godzilla.

_Don't fly straight!_

The words of his aerial combat instructors burst into his brain. He weaved right for a few seconds, then banked left. Flying in a straight line would only get you killed, whether it be by an enemy MiG or a mutant dinosaur.

McCain glimpsed his rearview mirror. Godzilla's tail snapped up . . . and clipped one of the Skyraiders.

"I'M HIT! I'M HIT!"

McCain recognized the voice. Willy Newsom, who had the quarters next to his on _Enterprise._ Icy needles plunged into his back as he checked over his shoulder. 

Newsom's plane spiraled and smashed into the ground, disappearing in a fireball.

A blue glow flared nearby.

"Shit!" McCain threw his Skyraider into a tight left turn. He glanced a fireball in the midst of the stream of blue fire. 

"Son-of-a-bitch!" blurted McCain's wingman, Oscar Jordan. "He nailed Commander Griggs!"

"Get in back of him! Keep away from his mouth!" McCain prayed his voice didn't crack as he issued the order.

He circled completely around and again lined up on Godzilla's back. He fought to keep his arms from trembling. Images of the monster spinning around and blowing him out of the sky tortured his mind. Would he feel anything? Would it be quick?

Another volley of rockets and cannon rounds pummeled Godzilla's back. The beast just kept lumbering on.

McCain pounded his left leg with his fist. Useless! Everything they did was useless. He shivered, thinking about all the pilots, like Griggs and Newsom, who'd just lost their lives. So much sacrifice, and absolutely nothing to show for it.

His eyes darted to his fuel gauge. He barely had enough for one more pass. Should he . . .

_I'm supposed to defend this country._

_You've hit that damn ugly lizard with everything you had twice. And it did nothing. You think a third run will be different?_

"Aztec Two-Six to Temple. I'm at bingo fuel," he radioed the carrier that he now had just enough fuel to make it home. "I'm coming back."

"Roger, Two-Six." McCain waited for Jordan to catch up and flew north for several miles. When he was convinced he was out of the range of Godzilla's fiery breath, he turned west for the ocean.

Half-an-hour later McCain touched down on _Enterprise_. The Skyraider's tailhook caught the Number Two arrestor wire. McCain got jerked back into his seat as the plane snapped to a halt. He took a few quick breaths, his body drenched in sweat.

_I'm alive. I made it._

But so many others didn't.

McCain tried to hold on to the elation that he remained in the land of the living. But a new fear overshadowed it. The fear of going back out there again. Facing that deadly atomic fire. Making one useless attack after another.

He'd survived his first round with Godzilla. Would he be so lucky a second time?

The canopy slid open. McCain stared up at the young, acne-filled face of Seaman Vincent Righetti, his plane captain.

"You okay, Lieutenant?"

McCain opened his mouth to reply . . .

And puked all over his flight suit.

* * *

**NEXT: **_The Battle of Los Angeles_


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Obviously I don't own Godzilla._

* * *

_OVER THE SANTA MARGARITA MOUNTAIN RANGE_

Jimmy Stewart suppressed a groan as he caught his co-pilot aiming another astonished look his way.

_Be careful what you wish for._

He wanted to get in the cockpit of a B-52. He also wanted an experienced co-pilot to go along with it.

Stewart got his wish on the former, but not the latter.

Second Lieutenant Kyle Harley was a sallow-faced shrimp of a young man barely two months out of flight training. While waiting for takeoff, the co-pilot had gone down the list of every movie of Stewart's he'd ever seen, wanting to know things like, "Is John Wayne really as tough as he is in the movies?" and, "Is Donna Reed as nice as she is on her TV show?"

Thankfully Stewart, as a brigadier general, had full authority to tell the second lieutenant to please shut up and concentrate on flying.

That didn't stop Harley from gawking. Nor the other members of the bomber crew . . . except Master Sergeant Warburton. The gruff, bulldog-looking gunner was a World War II vet who looked like he hadn't smiled since that time.

Stewart would gladly take that man's sour disposition over the stares of adulation any day.

"Target still proceeding northwest," radioed the spotter plane below the B-52 squadron. "Coordinates Three Three One One Seven Five."

"Roger, Sparrow Five," replied Colonel Jurgens, the squadron commander. "Time on Target two minutes."

"Perkins," Stewart called to the bombardier/navigator. "You heard the CO. The plane is yours."

"Roger that, Sir. Adjust heading five degrees to port."

"Five degrees to port. Roger."

Stewart pulled the huge bomber to the left. Nothing to do now but keep it on course and wait for Perkins to decide when to drop the 54,000 pounds of high explosives they carried right on Godzilla's noggin. He shook his head briefly. The B-17s he flew in World War II could only haul about 8,000 pounds worth of bombs.

Unlike over Germany, the sky was vacant of flak and _Luftwaffe _fighters. Their absence made it easy at times for Stewart to forget he was on a combat mission.

Remembering the recon photos of the ruins of San Diego and other cities and towns made him sober up in a hurry.

A line of black dots fell from the bellies of the four B-52s ahead of him. Moments later the next four bombers in formation dropped their payloads.

Then came their turn.

"Target acquired," Perkins reported. "Bombs away."

The B-52 rose slightly as it loosed its bombs.

Stewart clenched the plane's controls. He prayed this worked. How could it not? The entire squadron had dropped nearly 650,000 pounds of bombs. Godzilla was unbelievably tough, but not even he could survive such an onslaught.

"Did we kill him?" Harley asked. "We had to have killed him."

"I can't tell," Perkins responded. "Too much smoke and dust down there. Still, there's no way that damn ugly lizard could be -"

"Look out!"

Stewart had no idea who shouted the warning. Moments later a jet of blue flame streaked near the first group of B-52s.

The radio burst to life.

"Holy shit!"

"He's shooting at us!"

"How the hell is he still alive?"

"Can the chatter!" Colonel Jurgens bellowed. "Evasive maneuvers!"

B-52s began weaving about the sky. Stewart banked his plane right.

That's when a second stream of blue flame appeared. This one connected with one of the bombers. The huge plane disintegrated in a flash of orange and black.

Stewart trembled for a moment. A split second flashback transported him back over Germany twenty years ago, watching B-17s explode from Nazi anti-aircraft fire.

Another B-52 blew up. And another. Stewart threw the plane into a right left turn, the g-forces pushing him back in his seat and threatening to cave in his chest. Grunting, he swung the bomber to the left.

The rear of a B-52 filled his vision.

Harley gasped.

"Oh hell!" Stewart heaved the plane to the right.

A flash of blue caught his eye.

The bomber in front of him exploded. Stewart tensed as chunks of debris rocketed toward him.

A horrendous crash shook the B-52. Stewart's hands crushed the controls as the plane bucked in all directions. A fierce blast of wind slammed against his body. Sharp pricks stung his face. Stewart clenched his teeth, fighting to steady the bomber.

"C'mon . . . c'mon, dammit!"

The B-52 dipped to the left. Stewart glanced at the altimeter. The numbers spun down and down. He yanked the controls to the right. The plane rose a bit, then dropped again.

"Harley! Give me a hand!"

No response.

"Harley! Har-"

Stewart whipped his head right. His jaw tightened.

Wind shrieked through the huge tear in the cockpit. Harley's body sat limp in his seat, the young man's head and shoulders a mangled mess of blood and meat.

Stewart peered over his shoulder. The navigator lay face down on his blood-soaked panel. The electronic warfare officer appeared stunned, but otherwise okay.

He started to turn his head forward . . . and froze. Fear and disbelief surged through his body. Stewart's eyes locked on the starboard wing.

Or rather, what remained of it.

Half the wing was gone, and with it both outboard engines. The inboard Pratt and Whitneys still hung from the aircraft, belching flame and smoke.

The B-52 dipped further to the left. Stewart trembled, expecting the bomber to completely roll over any moment.

Only one option remained.

"Bail out! Everyone bail out!"

Stewart watched the EWO's seat blast out of the cockpit. He then looked over to the navigator and called out his name in the vain hope he might still be alive.

After two shouts, the man still didn't stir.

_Nothing you can do for him._

Stewart yanked out the pin on his ejection seat and pulled the handle.

An invisible steel boot kicked him in the ass. His insides quaked as the rocket under his seat shot him out of the plane. The wind battered him even worse than in the shattered cockpit.

The seat fell away. Stewart's shoulders nearly got yanked out of their sockets as the parachute deployed. He snapped his head left to right. Dozens of miniature comets hurtled toward the ground, all that remained of many of the B-52s. He noticed two bombers fading into the distance.

_At least some of them made it._

Stewart scanned the sky again. He only spotted three other parachutes, most likely from his bomber.

Snorting, he looked down. The wrecked B-52 rolled over once, then twice. Both wings sheered off and spiraled away.

His face tightened in anger, Stewart gazed at the panoramic view of the mountains, urban sprawl and the Pacific Ocean. The sheer magnificence of the view was lost on him at that moment.

If an entire B-52 squadron couldn't kill Godzilla, what the hell could?

**XXXXX**

_NEAR LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA_

"Let's go! Move it! Move it!"

Lt. Colonel Hal Moore waved his soldiers forward as they leaped out of trucks and Jeeps. Schwarzkopf and the other junior officers directed the men behind trees and protruding rocks and into ditches. Heavier weapons like mortars, recoilless rifles and bazookas were put up front, along with two Jeeps carrying .30 caliber machine guns.

Moore, however, didn't think any weapons carried by his cobbled-together battalion would do a lick of good against Godzilla. He sneered as he gazed at the soldiers digging foxholes or setting up their mortars and recoilless rifles. He wanted to scream and curse at the futility of all this. A lot of men were going to die here today, and for what? Did they really expect to stop Godzilla? Or even divert him away from Laguna Beach, and eventually Los Angeles?

Moore closed his eyes and thought of his wife, Julia, imagining the letter she'd get informing her of his death. The letter that would read how he valiantly died defending the country when it should really say, _"Your husband and his men died in a futile battle against Godzilla. Their sacrifice was in vain as the beast wound up destroying Los Angeles._

Futile or not, the Army ordered him here to fight Godzilla. That's exactly what he'd do, to the best of his ability. Even if they couldn't stop him, maybe, just maybe, they could give the civilian population a little extra time to get out of the monster's path.

That thought was somewhat comforting.

"Holy shit! Look!" One of the soldiers cried.

Moore looked to the distant hills. At first he didn't see anything unusual . . . until one of those hills moved!

Even from several miles away, Moore heard Godzilla's distinctive roar. Tremors rippled under his feet as the monster lumbered toward them.

"C'mon! You're not gonna stop that thing by gawking at it!" Captain Schwarzkopf hollered at a mortar team who'd stopped setting up their weapon to stare in fright at Godzilla.

Other officers and NCOs also yelled at men who spent more time gaping at the monster instead of preparing to fight it. But Moore noticed a few lieutenants and senior sergeants also staring in horror at Godzilla.

A little yelling fixed that.

Moore trekked back to his command post, which was simply a Jeep with a map taped to the hood and a short Mexican corporal in the passenger's seat with a field radio. A distant rumble of thunder caught his attention. He stared out at the Pacific Ocean and spotted three gray shapes in the distance. Puffs of smoke burst from the guns of the cruiser _Galveston_ and the destroyers _Epperson _and _Maddox._ Geysers of smoke and dirt erupted around Godzilla as he traversed the hills outside Laguna Beach.

More thunderclaps filled the air, these much closer. Moore turned to the hilltops behind him, where the 105mm howitzers sat.

Godzilla roared again as shells exploded around and against him. Moore's face tightened. Despite all the reports he'd seen on past Godzilla rampages, he still found it inconceivable any living thing could survive a direct hit from an artillery shell. From multiple artillery shells, in fact.

A mechanical growl merged with the booms of the howitzers. Moore watched several M-48 and M-24 tanks race past his position. Clouds of dust kicked up behind them as they headed for Godzilla. Moore fought the urge to throw a fist in the air and cheer them on. Unfortunately, rooting for the tanks to beat Godzilla seemed akin to rooting for the lowly Washington Senators to beat the all-mighty New York Yankees for the American League pennant.

The tremors underneath him grew in intensity as Godzilla drew nearer. Jeeps and trucks bounced. More than a few men prayed aloud. One or two cried. Moore's face muscles began to hurt as he tried to prevent any ounce of the fear that engulfed him from pushing to the surface.

The tanks opened fire. Usually one or two shots before rolling to a new firing position. The howitzers and the ships continued hammering away. Dirt and trees tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground from the non-stop explosions.

Moore held his breath when Godzilla's mouth opened. A jet of blue flame consumed an M-48. The tank liquefied before his eyes, then vanished in a fireball.

Another tank met the same fate . . . and another.

The monster's footfalls shook the ground. Moore wobbled from side-to-side. A few soldiers yelped. He noticed Schwarzkopf trying to look stoic while all the color drained from his face.

An M-48 halted and fired. The 90mm shell burst against Godzilla's stomach. The monster barely took notice. The tank began to move.

Godzilla stomped it flat.

Moore jogged over to Schwarzkopf. The captain kept one eye on Godzilla and the other on Moore.

"No sense waiting any longer. All units, fire at will."

"Yes, Sir."

Seconds later recoilless rifles and mortars thumped. Machine guns chattered non-stop. Several riflemen also joined in the barrage, not that their rounds would come close to Godzilla, or do any good even if they did.

Godzilla's footfalls became more deafening than the roaring gunfire that surrounded Moore. Shells and bullets flew off in all directions as soldiers found it difficult to aim with the ground constantly shifting.

Moore fired his M-14 until the magazine ran dry. He went to remove the empty clip . . . and stopped. He swallowed and leaned back, eyes bulging.

His heart threatened to punch through his chest. He'd seen aircraft carriers, he'd seen the Empire State Building. Neither were as awe-inspiring, or as frightening, as Godzilla. His mind nearly shut down, trying to comprehend the beast before him.

Since his first days at West Point, Moore had come to believe in the absolute superiority of the U.S. military. This nation had the best bombers, the best ships, the best tanks and the best trained men in the world . . . along with enough nukes to wipe out any Commie country that wanted to raise Cain three times over.

It all seemed insignificant compared to the creature standing before him.

Godzilla roared again. Moore had to clasp his hands over his ears. Many soldiers around him did the same thing.

Atomic fire shot out Godzilla's mouth. It struck half-a-mile away. Moore swallowed as he watched howitzers, vehicles and men simply disintegrate.

Godzilla breathed fire again. Flames swept through the vegetation and reached nearby homes. Sweat drenched Moore's body.

The monster's head moved toward him. This time Moore couldn't stop himself from trembling. He glimpsed movement out the corner of his eye. Three soldiers broke ranks and fled. Moore said nothing. He just fixed on Godzilla's menacing stare, thinking about Julia and the kids, hoping they'd get along fine without him.

Godzilla's mouth opened.

Moore didn't blink. His lips moved in quiet prayer.

"'Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name . . ."

Blue flame shot over Moore's head. He whirled around and watched it strike a hill behind him where a howitzer had been placed. Half the hill exploded, as did the artillery piece.

Moore quickly thanked the Man upstairs for watching his back, then turned to his men. Many of them continued to fire at Godzilla, not that it accomplished anything except to piss off the monster more.

Moore hesitated. He didn't want to give this order. No leader did. But what purpose would be served staying here one second longer.

"Fall back! Everyone, fall back!"

The soldiers jumped out of their trenches and foxholes. Moore waved furiously at them to hurry.

"What now, Sir?" asked Schwarzkopf.

Before Moore could open his mouth, a jet of blue flame struck close by. The men caught in it turned to ash. A truck exploded.

"I'll figure it out later."

**XXXXX**

_ABOVE LOS ANGELES_

Lieutenant McCain flinched every time a flash of blue tore through the hazy skies over L.A. One blast claimed two F-4 Phantoms. Another turned an entire flight of Air National Guard F-86 Sabres into fireballs. Another sent an A-5 Vigilante plummeting toward Long Beach in flames.

Still the planes kept coming, striking Godzilla with bombs, rockets and cannon shells. The beast stomped through the city unfazed. With casual swats and swipes of the tail, tall buildings crumbled. Footfalls crushed entire neighborhoods. McCain shivered when he saw an overpass crowded with vehicles collapse as Godzilla walked through it. The creature then opened its mouth and unleashed its deadly breath. More waves of fire swept over the city. Columns of thick black smoke rose into the air. McCain prayed most of L.A.'s residents had gotten out of the city in time.

An F-8 Crusader unleashed a barrage of rockets. Several bright streaks smashed into the plates covering Godzilla's back and exploded. The beast swung around and roared. The F-8 banked hard right.

Godzilla swiped at it. The jet shattered like a light bulb dropped on a concrete floor.

Two F-4s dove on Godzilla, ready to unleash their bombs. The beast swung back around and opened its mouth.

The fighters vanished in a stream of atomic flame.

McCain's heart pounded. When would that deadly breath claim him?

_Hopefully never. I got out alive the first time. I can do it the second time._

He swung his A-1 Skyraider to the right and flew south for a couple minutes before coming back around. Attack from behind. He always attacked the monster from behind . . . and as low as possible. That kept him out of its line of fire. Why more pilots didn't do this McCain failed to understand.

_Most of the ones who don't are dead . . . or will be soon._

As if to reinforce the thought, a burst of blue flame blasted two F-105 Thunderchiefs out of the sky.

McCain placed the A-1's pipper on Godzilla's huge leg. He launched the remaining rockets under his wing, then fired a few bursts from the 20mm cannons.

As expected, his mini-barrage did nothing to the monster.

Heart hammering, McCain stared up at the beast towering over the city. He nearly cringed. The feeling from his first encounter returned. The feeling an ant must get whenever it looks up at a human.

All thought vanished as Godzilla twisted its head and torso toward him. McCain gasped. An invisible coat of ice covered his body.

_Turn, turn turn! Do you want to die?_

McCain slammed the stick to the left. He glimpsed an ominous blue glow in Godzilla's mouth.

The Skyraider groaned. McCain gritted his teeth as the g-forces built up, like one anvil after another being placed on his chest.

His rearview mirror filled with blue flame. A thunderous boom consumed the air around him. The Skyraider shook violently. McCain swallowed a breath.

_Please God. Please God._

He relaxed, slightly, as the plane stayed in the air. McCain forced himself to look over his shoulder.

Another section of L.A. burned. Godzilla roared and leaned back, breathing fire and blowing up a pair of F-4s.

McCain took quick gulps of air. He swung right just before he reached L.A. harbor. He checked his fuel status. Just past bingo fuel. With only a few rounds left in the cannons, he knew he couldn't do any more good here.

_Even fully armed I couldn't do any good._

McCain hugged the coast as he flew north, the tension melting from his body. He wanted to feel joy at surviving another encounter with Godzilla.

All he could think about were the other _Enterprise_ pilots who hadn't.

Names ran through his head. Gordon. Jablonski. McIlvaine. Smith. Curtis. Eckleson. Men he'd known for months. Men he ate with, drank with, played cards with, shared his life's ambitions with.

All gone.

Yet he remained.

_And for how long._

The cityscape soon faded below McCain, replaced by cliffs and trees. He looked above him, scanning for any other aircraft headed back to _Enterprise._

He saw none.

_I can't have been the only one to make it._

And what if he was? Would the crew think him a coward?

Hesitating for a moment, he flicked on his radio.

"Aztec Two-Six to Temple. Ordnance expended and I'm past bingo fuel. Heading home."

"Roger, Two-Six. Be advised we have a squall develop . . ."

An electronic flutter went through his headphones.

"Temple, could you repeat last message?"

McCain thought he heard a voice, a distant one at that. The flutter, however, grew louder.

His brow furrowed. This didn't sound like any sort of static he'd ever experienced.

He looked around. Maybe some exterior source was causing this. The controller on _Enterprise_ did mention something about a squall. Could that be affecting communications? There were high tension lines running along the cliffs. Maybe they were causing this.

McCain spotted movement on the road near the lines. A boxy vehicle with blue and gold trim. It looked like a police paddywagon. And it was hauling ass.

_Who wouldn't with a giant lizard wrecking California?_

He nodded to the vehicle, hoping the officers inside, and even any convicts it might be carrying, would make it safely to wherever they were headed.

A couple minutes later, _Enterprise_ contacted him again.

"We were getting worried, Two-Six. We thought we may have lost you."

"Sorry, Temple. Radio was on the fritz. But I'm reading you loud and clear now."

"Roger that, Two-Six. Be advised we have a squall closing in on us from the west. Sorry to say you'll be landing in less-than-ideal conditions."

McCain snorted. _Less-than-ideal._ Landing on a pitching hunk of metal in the middle of the ocean was hard enough. Throw in a rain storm on top of it and you had a seriously tightened sphincter.

_Still, I'd rather do that every day for the next month than face Godzilla again._

McCain frowned, knowing how unrealistic that wish was.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	7. Chapter 7

_NEAR SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO, CALIFORNIA_

A bolt of pure energy shot through Jimmy Stewart when he saw the green Army vehicles. A grin crossed his face, making him forget his sore legs from an afternoon's worth of walking and sharp pains in his back and neck from a night's worth of sleeping on the ground.

_Getting old stinks._

But he shoved that thought aside and broke through the trees, hurrying down the incline toward the vehicles. Finally no more walking. Finally he'd run into people. Every road and the two tiny towns he'd come across since getting shot down yesterday had been devoid of people. Now he . . .

Stewart halted. His muscles tightened as he took a second, more careful look around.

He saw no sign of any soldiers. What he did see sucked out every bit of his newfound energy.

A huge, reptilian footprint and three flattened vehicles within it.

The aches and pains from his travels hit him full force. Grimacing, Stewart ambled the rest of the way down the incline.

"Hello!" he called out in the vain hope someone was still around. After doing this four times without a response, he gave up and examined the vehicles along the road.

Two of the Jeeps and one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks had flat tires. Another Jeep contained under a quarter tank of gas.

The other truck, however, had a half tank of gas and no flat tires.

Stewart salvaged what he could. K-Rations, canteens, a blanket and an M-14.

_Oh yeah._ He shook his head at the rifle. _This will come in handy if I run into Godzilla._

He threw his supplies in the cab of the truck, which started with no problem.

_So where to now?_ March Air Force Base would be the logical choice. But Godzilla would have reached Los Angeles by now.

Stewart shivered, wondering if the city still remained. He prayed Gloria and the kids made it out all right.

He sighed as thoughts of his wife blanketed his mind. Why did he have to be so short with her before he left? Why couldn't he have just taken the time to explain to her why he needed to go, instead of snapping at her? Gloria was his wife, not some wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant like Harley . . . had been.

Stewart briefly shut his eyes, visualizing the young man's mangled corpse. How old had he been? Twenty-two, twenty-three maybe? Did he have a wife? A girlfriend? Damn, what was the kid's first name?

His hands flexed on the steering wheel. He thought stuff like this would forever be relegated to the past, having to watch young men fly into combat and die.

That horror had returned thanks to a damn mutant dinosaur.

A half-hour passed. Stewart saw no sign of people. He did come across several abandoned cars, probably out of gas, he imagined. He also passed the charred ruins of Laguna Beach. Even with the windows rolled up, the stench of burnt wood permeated the cab and clogged his nostrils.

He gazed at the horizon. Thick dark smoke stained the sky. Stewart sank back in his seat, picturing Los Angeles burning beneath it.

_Gloria. Please be all right._

The truck rumbled on for another fifteen minutes. Stewart was set to make a left when he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around.

Over a dozen soldiers hurried out of the woods near the road.

"Finally, people. Thank you, God." He put the truck in park, pushed open the door and jumped out.

"You fellas are a sight for sore eyes. I was starting to think I was the last man on Earth."

"We're glad to see you . . ." The man in the lead came to a sudden stop. His eyes widened. So did the eyes of the other soldiers behind him. One guy tugged on the sleeve of his buddy and pointed at Stewart.

"Holy . . ." The apparent leader continued to gape. "You're Jimmy Stewart!"

"That's _Brigadier General_ Stewart to you."

The man's stunned expression vanished. He snapped to attention and saluted. So did the other soldiers.

"Sorry, Sir. Lieutenant Colonel Hal Moore."

Stewart returned the salute, then shook Moore's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel. Where did you come from?"

"Laguna Beach. We threw everything we had at Godzilla. Went through us like we didn't exist. We're the only ones who made it out alive, that we know of. What about you, Sir?"

"I went up with a squadron of B-52s. Dropped over six hundred thousand pounds of bombs on that damn monster. Fat lot of good it did."

A few of the soldiers looked shocked. Stewart couldn't blame them. What on God's green Earth could survive a pounding like that?

_Godzilla, apparently._

"So where were you headed, Colonel?"

The corners of Moore's mouth twisted. "North, to L.A. Unfortunately from all the smoke on the horizon I have a bad feeling there is no more L.A."

Stewart saw some of the light fade from Moore's eyes. The man's face sagged. Stewart could practically read Moore's mind.

_I failed._

He had to be thinking that. That's exactly what Stewart was thinking.

"I was headed that way, too. To March Air Force Base. But who knows if it's even there anymore. Even if it is, I'm sure they evacuated before Godzilla got to the city."

Moore nodded, turning toward the smoke-filled horizon. "I don't think L.A.'s an option either, Sir."

"Did you have a rally point in case things went bad at Laguna Beach?"

"Costa Mesa. Though Godzilla probably went through it on his way to Los Angeles. We've been trying to raise our division HQ." Moore turned to the tan-skinned soldier with the bulky radio/telephone unit. "So far no one's talking back."

Stewart exhaled slowly and stared at the blacktop beneath him. After a few seconds he looked back up at Moore. "We need to get a military base. Army, Navy, Air Force, doesn't matter. And a major one, one where they might stage for another attack on Godzilla."

For a moment, Stewart expected Moore to say, _"What are you, nuts? You want to fight that thing again?"_

Instead the Colonel pulled out a map and spread it out on the driver's seat of the deuce-and-a-half. He traced his finger over the colorful image of California.

"Looks like we've got two choices, General. The Pacific Missile Test Center fifty miles north of L.A., or further north there's Vandenberg Air Force Base."

"The Test Center's the closest one. We'll go for that."

Moore nodded. "We can't go through Los Angeles. Godzilla's probably turned the place to rubble by now. Our best bet is to circle around the San Gabriel Mountains outside the city and head west toward Oxnard. We'll stick to backroads as much as possible. The highways are no doubt going to be jammed with civilians trying to get away from Godzilla."

"Then let's do that."

Moore assigned one of the privates in the group to drive the truck, while he, Stewart and the others climbed in the back.

Most of the soldiers, Moore included, spent a majority of the trip sleeping, in spite of the growling engine and a few bumpy roads. Even Stewart caught a few Zs, going on the theory he'd better get all the sleep he could now, as it would be a luxury once they got back into the fight.

They drove through the night, with another soldier taking over for the first driver. At one point a young pimply-faced private hesitantly slid over to Stewart.

"Um . . . excuse me, Sir?" His voice quivered.

"Yes, Private."

The boy sucked his lip. "Um, I was . . . well, I don't know if it's appropriate, but . . . um, General. C-Could I get your autograph . . . Sir?"

Any other time, Stewart would have dressed down the man for such unprofessional behavior. He didn't like when soldiers turned into autograph seekers while he was in uniform. When he put on his star and wings, he ceased being Jimmy Stewart the actor and became Jimmy Stewart the U.S. Air Force Brigadier General.

But then he considered what this kid had been through at Laguna Beach. Stewart fought Godzilla thousands of feet in the air and never even saw the monster from the cockpit of his B-52. This private probably had a ringside seat for Godzilla's rampage. He couldn't imagine how terrified the boy must have been.

Stewart smiled and took the piece of cardboard and the pen from the soldier's hand. "What's your name, Private?"

"Uh, Eric . . . Eric Boddicker, Sir."

Stewart scribbled on the cardboard.

_To Eric,_

_It's a pleasure serving with you._

_All my best._

_Jimmy Stewart_

He handed the cardboard back to the private, who beamed at him.

"Thank you, Mister . . . I-I mean, General Stewart. My girlfriend's gonna flip when I show her this. Our first date, I took her to see _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."_

"You made a good choice there, son."

"Yes, Sir. Um, thank you, Sir."

The private scooted away, still grinning.

Stewart eyed Eric Boddicker, hoping the young man would live through this so he could show his girl the autograph.

With all the detours and traffic jams, it wasn't until dawn that they closed in on Oxnard.

Stewart groaned, his entire body sore from sleeping in awkward positions in this rattling truck. Other men also stirred, rubbing sore necks and shoulders. After brief self-massages, a few of the men broke out their K-Rations. Stewart refrained, deciding to wait until they reached the Pacific Missile Test Center. He'd be able to get some real food there.

_Unless they decided to evacuate._

"Acosta. Let's give the radio another try," Moore ordered the R/T operator.

The soldier nodded. He flicked a few switches and pressed the handset to his ear.

"Able Tango Three Three Provisional to any U.S. military forces. Do you read? Over."

The soldier's brow furrowed. He stared at the handset, then at Moore. "Colonel, we've got some kind of weird interference."

He passed the handset to Moore, who listened for a few seconds.

"Problem, Colonel?" asked Stewart.

"It's like Acosta said. We've got some kind of weird interference. Not static. It's like some . . . pulsing sound. I really don't know how to describe it."

"Let me see." Stewart shuffled over to Moore and took the handset. He scrunched his face when he heard it. Like some sort of electronic flutter.

_Jamming? _That might make sense if they were under attack by a human enemy. He doubted Godzilla would have any way of jamming communications.

He gave the handset back to Acosta, who tried calling out again with the same result. Stewart's eyes flickered from the soldier to the rear opening. A truck with blue and gold trim sat off to the side of the road. Two men in blue uniforms squatted by the front, changing a flat tire. Stewart thought he saw the word POLICE on the side of the vehicle.

"Colonel, let's check with those fellas. Maybe they have a radio that works."

**XXXXX**

Grigori Yazlov's heart hammered in his chest as he watched the U.S. Army truck drive past them.

"Shit!" Dmitri Azatoya's hands pressed harder against the spare tire he held. "Do you think they'll stop?"

Before Grigori could speak, the truck answered for him. Its brake lights flashed on. Moments later the truck backed up.

"What do we do now?" Dmitri looked up, sweat glistening on his brow.

"Stay calm," Grigori hissed. "We don't have anything to worry about. We're just two ordinary American cops. Now act like it."

Grigori took a couple deep breaths, settling himself. His stomach still felt like a cauldron of boiling acid.

Two soldiers jumped out of the truck. One a lieutenant colonel, the other . . . actually, the other man wasn't a soldier. He wore an olive green flightsuit and the insignia of a brigadier general.

But the face. Something about it looked so familiar . . .

_No. It can't be._

Grigori had seen many of the man's movies as part of his KGB training to operate within the United States. He'd even liked them. He also knew the man still served in the reserves.

But never in his wildest dreams did he expect to meet Jimmy Stewart.

"Good morning, officers." Stewart nodded to them. "Having a little trouble?"

"Just a little," Grigori tried to sound casual, like many Californians. "Blew out a tire."

"Need any help?"

"No thank you. We're almost finished. Hey, aren't . . . aren't you Jimmy Stewart?" Grigori felt he had to ask the question. Any typical American would. To not would invite suspicion he didn't need.

"Guilty as charged. Though right now it's General Stewart. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Moore, U.S. Army." Stewart explained how the two of them had been part of the unsuccessful battle to keep Godzilla out of L.A. He then looked at the side of the fake paddywagon, then back at Grigori. "So what are a couple of San Diego cops doing this far north?"

Grigori fought to keep any hint of nervousness off his face. "Evacuating prisoners from the city lock-up. We were supposed to bring them to L.A., but with Godzilla bearing down on it . . ."

"Understandable. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a radio in here, would you. Ours seems to be on the fritz."

"Wish I could help you, General Stewart. Unfortunately, this thing was in for maintenance when Godzilla showed up in San Diego. At the time we needed every vehicle we could to evacuate the prisoners. Beggars couldn't be choosers, you know."

Grigori held his breath, his stomach twisting in painful knots. Would the actor/general accept his story? Did he perhaps say too much?

"Damn. Sorry to hear that. We wanted to . . ."

A distant, familiar roar carried through the air. All heads turned to the hills and forests behind them.

"How far away do you think that was?" Grigori asked, not having to fake the quiver in his voice.

"Far enough that we'll be long gone by the time he gets here," Stewart answered. "You fellas sure you don't need any help?"

"Thanks, General. But we'll be wrapped up with this in a couple minutes. You can bet we won't dilly-dally."

"Okay, then. Take care of yourselves. We're headed to the Pacific Missile Test Center. You may want to join us there when you're done."

"Thanks for the offer, but we were planning on dropping these guys off in San Francisco. I don't feel like babysitting a bunch of hoods forever."

"Gotcha." Stewart nodded. "Good luck, gentlemen."

Both Grigori and Dmitri waved to Stewart and Moore as they got back in the truck and drove off. The two KGB agents quickly put on the spare tire and got into the paddywagon as another roar from Godzilla echoed through the air . . . this one a little closer than the last.

Grigori thought about Stewart's destination, the Pacific Missile Test Center. In a few hours, Godzilla would completely destroy the base where the Americans carried out many of their nuclear missile tests.

He did, however, hope that Stewart would survive the attack. Grigori wanted the man to keep making great movies.

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	8. Chapter 8

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_The following contains some explicit language. You have been warned._

* * *

_OVER SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA_

Lieutenant John McCain thought of some of the World War II footage he'd seen over the years. The sky filled with hundreds of planes on their way to attack the Germans or Japanese.

Movie and TV screens couldn't do such a scene justice.

For the umpteenth time he stared out his canopy at the mass of planes around him. Two hundred-plus aircraft roared over Santa Barbara like a lethal swarm of metallic wasps. McCain figured every combat aircraft in the U.S. arsenal was represented in this armada. F-4 Phantoms, A-4 Skyhawks, F-8 Crusaders, F-104 Starfighters, F-100 Super Sabres, F-86 Sabres, F-106 Delta Darts, B-52s, B-58s, P-2 Neptunes, A-5 Vigilantes, F-105 Thunderchiefs, even some of those brand-spanking new A-6 Intruder attack jets. McCain then glanced at the aircraft immediately around him. All prop-driven, just like his A-1 Skyraider. All vintage World War II aircraft. P-51 Mustangs, F4U Corsairs, P-47 Thunderbolts, P-38 Lightnings, Dauntless dive bombers, TBF Avengers, B-24 Liberators, B-25 Mitchells, B-26 Marauders, even a B-29 Superfortress. McCain wondered what storage facilities or airplane graveyards those things had been dug out of. The thought made him clench his jaw. How desperate was the situation if they had to throw these museum pieces into the fight?

He knew the answer when he thought of all the empty bunks in pilots' country aboard the _Enterprise._

_Very._

"Target in sight," a voice called out on the radio.

McCain stared ahead, tension squeezing his muscles.

Godzilla let loose with his radioactive breath. A fireball blossomed over a section of Santa Barbara. Thick clouds of smoke from other infernos around the city wafted past the enormous monster. Godzilla tramped through the city, crushing small buildings and houses beneath his feet.

The bombers went in first. McCain watched small dark dots fall from the sky in staggered lines. Dozens of explosions flashed around Godzilla. The monster threw up its arms as a whirlwind of fire surrounded it. McCain leaned forward as far as he could in his seat when Godzilla staggered.

"Go down, dammit. Go down and stay down."

A second wave of B-52s and B-58s dropped their payloads. The maelstrom of flames and smoke around Godzilla looked like dozens of miniature volcanoes erupting at once. The corners of his mouth twitched for a moment when he thought of how much destruction _they_ were causing to Santa Barbara.

_Yeah, well Godzilla would have destroyed it anyway. If we stop him . . ._

Stop him. The U.S. Armed Forces had thrown everything they had, short of a nuke, against Godzilla. Nothing even scratched the damn beast.

_Maybe we will drop a nuke on it._ McCain wondered if President Kennedy would actually authorize the use of an atomic weapon on U.S. soil.

_If Godzilla keeps destroying our cities, what choice will we have?_

McCain shook his head. Since he wasn't sitting in the Oval Office, he had no say one way or the other in that matter. All he could do was fly his plane, shoot at Godzilla, and hope beyond hope that maybe the monster would get tired of the constant attacks and head back out to the sea.

A flash of blue caught his attention. A B-26 vanished in a puff of flame. Two bombs had fallen out of a Navy P-2 when Godzilla's deadly breath blew it apart. A B-25 barreled toward the monster, firing its nose-mounted 75mm cannon. Streaks of yellow struck Godzilla's upper leg. The beast whipped around, the tip of its tail shattering the B-25's cockpit.

Now everyone joined in. Flashes of light winked from the machine guns of the WWII fighters. Contrails from missiles and rockets streaked away from jet fighters. Godzilla roared as explosions bracketed his body. Several times the smoke billowing from Santa Barbara consumed him. It didn't stop many of the aircraft from firing.

Jets of blue flame added to the fireworks-like display of tracers and contrails blazing across the sky. More planes exploded. Radio chatter was non-stop, filled with everything from orders to screams of terror.

Godzilla emerged from the smoke. Two F-100s shot directly toward him, coming in level with his head. Were the pilots trying to send missiles down the monster's gullet?

Blue flame disintegrated both jet fighters before they could get a shot off.

_Remind me never to try that._

McCain circled around, trailed by a Corsair and a P-47. He lined up on Godzilla's back and launched all his rockets. The other two fighters did the same.

Like every other time before, the rockets had no effect. He fired a burst from the A-1's 20mm cannons, more out of frustration than anything else.

McCain banked left.

Godzilla turned with him.

He gasped at the flash of blue in his rearview mirror. The Corsair was incinerated.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_ His heart slammed into his chest.

Another burst of radioactive breath blew apart the P-47.

McCain shivered. Had his luck finally run out?

_No. No fucking way!_

He started to jink when he noticed a huge cloud of smoke barely 500 feet from him.

He gunned the engine and headed directly for it.

Darkness enveloped him. A brief wave of panic seized him. He didn't like not seeing anything with so much lead, and fiery breath, in the air.

_But at least Godzilla can't see me._

Moments later he emerged from the smoke cloud and ducked into another one. When he came out the other side, he quickly glanced to the right. Godzilla had swatted an F-4 out of the sky and twisted his body in McCain's direction.

"What the hell? Is he tracking me?" That couldn't be. Godzilla was just a dumb fucking animal.

Rational thought left McCain when he saw a blue glow in Godzilla's maw. He flew the A-1 into another smoke cloud. The darkness overhead flashed like heat lightning.

_Ha! Another miss._ "Screw you, you son-of-a- . . ."

Tiny hammers pounded the A-1. McCain clenched his teeth as the plane rattled. He emerged from the cloud, the beach and the Pacific Ocean flashing below him.

That's when he noticed the holes in the right wing. A sharp whistle filled the cockpit. McCain checked over his shoulder and saw a hole in his canopy.

He continued over the water, maneuvering left and right. The plane felt sluggish, especially on right turns. He scanned his instrument panel. Engine pressure had fallen. Even worse, he started to lose fuel.

McCain scowled. Shrapnel, he figured. Godzilla must have hit a plane flying above him, and the debris pelted his A-1.

"This is Aztec Two-Six. I've got a damaged bird. I'm pulling out."

McCain wondered if anyone heard him over the cacophony of voices on the radio. He took one last grim look back at Santa Barbara. Planes swarmed all over Godzilla, shooting and bombing the monster. A clawed hand here and a fiery breath there destroyed more aircraft.

McCain headed north. He doubted his fuel would hold out long enough to reach the _Enterprise._ His best bet would be Vandenberg Air Force Base, about 50 miles away. Still he made sure to scan the ground below for any roadways or other long stretches of terra firma he could land on in an emergency.

The A-1 was down to a couple hundred pounds of fuel when the runway at Vandenberg came into view.

"Vandenberg Control, this is Aztec Two-Six, A-1 Skyraider off _USS Enterprise._ I am declaring an emergency."

No one responded. The only sound in his headphones was a strange electronic flutter.

_This again. What the hell?_

McCain repeated his message. The interference remained.

"Dammit." He bared his teeth, glancing at the runway and his near empty fuel gauge. He didn't have time to wait for permission. It was either go for the runway or splatter all over Vandenberg.

He checked the air space around him. No planes around, thank God. McCain dropped his gear and lined up on the runway.

The engine sputtered seconds before he touched down. A hard jolt tore through him as the A-1 bounced on the runway. With the engine's growl fading, he swung the plane to the right, where it rolled off the asphalt and to the dirt along the runway. Ambulances and fire trucks rolled toward him, along with a Jeep carrying what appeared to be groundcrew.

"You okay, Sir?" a tall Air Force sergeant asked as McCain jumped off the wing of his A-1.

"You know what they say." He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "Any landing you can walk away from . . ."

"Did you come from Santa Barbara?" The sergeant led McCain away as two men approached the A-1 with fire extinguishers in hand.

"Yeah, I did. I . . . I'm fine." McCain waved off a medic and kept walking, hacking on the clouds of dust created by the emergency vehicles. "Any word on how we're doing." His gut tightened, fearing the answer.

The sergeant's head dropped for a moment before looking back at McCain. "I heard we lost over half the air armada. There was something like two-hundred fifty planes over Santa Barbara. Shit, Sir. At this rate there won't be a U.S. Air Force by the end of the week. Probably be the same for you Navy flyboys as well."

McCain found he couldn't argue with the sergeant.

**XXXXX**

_THE KREMLIN_

_MOSCOW, USSR_

"Operation: Death Knell seems to be going even better than we dared hope, Comrade Andropov." Nikita Khrushchev shot Yuri Andropov a huge gleaming smile from behind his desk. "Godzilla has destroyed the American naval presence in San Diego, two major naval infantry bases, a large air force base and their missile test range outside Los Angeles."

"Not to mention the thousands of soldiers killed and hundreds of aircraft destroyed trying to fight the monster." Andropov didn't smile, even though inwardly he couldn't be happier with the progress their unwitting weapon was making. "The best part is, the Americans are playing right into our hands. They're rushing every combat unit they can muster to California, including some of their best ones like the 82nd Airborne Division, the 101st Airborne Division and the First Infantry Division. Two more carrier task forces, led by the _Forrestal_ and the _Coral Sea,_ have also taken up station off the coast. Our intelligence indicates the Americans will congregate in and around San Francisco. Godzilla likely won't reach that city for a few days. That will give the Americans enough time to gather a large combat force and launch an all-out attack on the creature."

"Where they will all be destroyed!" Khrushchev clapped his hands together. "We may not need Godzilla to rampage across the U.S. The way things are going, the Americans will sacrifice their entire military trying to stop him. Then Western Europe will easily fall to us. We should even be able to march on America itself . . . once we have lured Godzilla out of it, of course."

"The Americans still have a sizeable nuclear arsenal. They may not hesitate to use it on us if their conventional forces have been exhausted fighting Godzilla."

"The bulk of their nuclear force is made up of bombers, and Godzilla is doing an excellent job knocking them out of the sky. And with the rest of the American air force destroyed, our bombers will have no problem attacking them should Kennedy decide to use his nuclear option."

"There is also Britain and France to consider should we decide to invade Western Europe," Andropov reminded him.

Khrushchev gave him a dismissive wave. "Bah! Their atomic arsenals are miniscule compared to ours and the United States. Oh, we will suffer _some_ damage. The difference is, Comrade Andropov, _we_ will recover from it. The West will not."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	9. Chapter 9

_VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA_

McCain had polished off his third roast beef sandwich in the commissary of the Flight Operations Building when he noticed several Air Force personnel dash through the corridor outside. Finishing off the last of his lukewarm coffee, he rose from his plastic chair and headed for the doorway. A chubby technical sergeant with thick glasses plodded by.

"Sergeant."

The man spun around. "Yes, Sir?"

"What's going on?"

"We're evacuating Vandenberg." The Sergeant started down the hallway. McCain followed.

"Godzilla's on his way?"

"Yes, Sir. They're saying he could be here in two or three hours. Moves damn fast for a big lizard."

"Where's everyone headed?"

The Sergeant shrugged as a few more Air Force people hurried past them. "Don't know. North, I guess. Maybe Frisco. I hear that's where everyone's staging for a big counter-attack on Godzilla."

"I need to get in touch with my carrier_. _If we're going to hit that scaly s.o.b. again I'm not going to do anyone much good sitting on the ground."

McCain managed to keep from shaking his head. Just a couple days ago he would have given anything to stay on _Enterprise_ and not go anywhere near Godzilla. Now he actually wanted to go after him.

_Well what the hell am I supposed to do? Turn chicken and dishonor all the pilots who've died?_

_Next time out you may join them. Think about that._

He had thought about that. A lot. But so far his luck had held out. Who's to say it wouldn't continue?

_Please let it continue._

"Sorry, Sir." The Sergeant went through the glass doors of the Flight Operations Building. Several Jeeps and trucks rumbled by, kicking up clouds of dust. "We're having problems with communications."

"What sort of problems?" McCain's brow furrowed. Out the corner of his eye he noticed several soldiers and a tall man in a flightsuit milling around a deuce-and-a-half.

"I don't know," the Sergeant answered. "Some kind of weird noise."

"How would you describe it?"

The Sergeant's face contorted. "Beats me. It's just . . . weird."

"Like, say, an electronic flutter?"

"Yeah, sure. I guess."

McCain took a deep breath. "Sergeant. I heard a similar noise over my radio shortly after I engaged Godzilla in Los Angeles. Has this . . . interference been reported anywhere else?"

"I don't know."

"Well maybe we should bring this to the base commander's attention."

"I'm sorry, Sir. But I'm sure he's busy dealing with the evacuation."

"Well we should tell someone about this. We can't have communications down in the middle of a battle."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know what more I can do." The Sergeant looked flustered. "We're in the middle of evacuating the base and I need to get these reports to the operations officer." He held out a thick manila folder. "I'm sorry."

With that, the Sergeant waddled off.

McCain scowled, ready to order the fat idiot back here.

_And what good would that do?_

The Sergeant was probably right. The base commander would be too pre-occupied with the evacuation to spare any time for a lowly lieutenant, and a Navy lieutenant at that, to talk about some radio interference.

_And just what is going on with the radio?_ And why is it happening now? He'd flown up and down California several times in the past and never once experienced anything like this. But when Godzilla shows up . . .

"Excuse me, Son?"

McCain stiffened when he heard the voice behind him. It sounded so familiar, but he knew it didn't belong to a friend. But . . . how . . . who . . .

He turned around and swallowed a breath in surprise.

Less than two feet away stood none other than Jimmy Stewart . . . in a flightsuit of all things.

_And wearing general's stars._

"Sir!" He snapped to attention and saluted.

"What's your name?" Stewart asked as several soldiers, including a lieutenant colonel and a husky captain, conglomerated around him.

"Sir. Lieutenant John McCain, United States Navy, assigned to the _USS Enterprise _air wing."

"I couldn't help but overhear, but this radio interference, you said you experienced it before?"

"Yes, Sir. Outside Los Angeles, on my way back to _Enterprise _after I finished my attack run on Godzilla."

Stewart nodded. "Interesting. Because we experienced it ourselves on our way to the Pacific Missile Test Center . . . before Godzilla destroyed it."

"What do you think it could be?"

"No idea, Lieutenant." Stewart shook his head. "But after what you went through, what we went through, and what's happening currently, I'm beginning to wonder if this interference is somehow connected to Godzilla."

"I'll bet the ranch and the dog it is," said the lieutenant colonel, Moore according to his name tag. "Sorry, General, but I'm not one to believe in coincidence."

"But how is it connected?" McCain held his arms out to his side. "I mean, Godzilla can't be causing it. He's just an animal."

"I don't know, Lieutenant. But maybe someone wants to screw up our radios so we'd have a harder time coordinating our attacks against Godzilla."

"If that's the case," Moore spoke up, "they're doing a piss-poor job of it. We had no trouble with our radios during the Laguna Beach battle."

"Our radios were working fine when we made our bombing run on Godzilla," Stewart mentioned.

"I had no problems during any of my attacks," said McCain. "It was only when I was egressing from my missions."

"I guess it didn't matter after all that those cops had a busted radio."

McCain canted his head at the stocky captain, whose nametag read SCHWARZKOPF. "What cops?"

"On our way to the missile base. We came across these two cops changing a flat tire on their paddywagon. They were evacuating prisoners from San Diego."

McCain chewed on his lip. He approached Schwarzkopf. "When was this?"

"Just yesterday."

"And you were having problems with your radio at that time."

"Yeah." Schwarzkopf nodded. "We tried it just a couple minutes before we ran into those cops, and couldn't get anything but that weird electronic noise. We asked the cops if we could use their radio, but they said it was busted."

McCain took a breath and turned to General Stewart. "Sir. After the Los Angeles battle, when I was heading back to the _Enterprise,_ maybe a minute or so after I got that strange interference, I saw a paddywagon driving north on one of the highways below me."

"Was it from San Diego?"

"I couldn't tell. But I know for sure it was a paddywagon."

"Like I said," Moore folded his arms against his chest, "I don't believe in coincidence."

"So why are these cops messing with our radios?"

"If they're really cops. Dammit!" Schwarzkopf's face reddened. "We should have checked that vehicle."

"We had no reason to at the time, Captain," Stewart said. "Besides, if they are up to something, what better disguise than a police vehicle during a crisis? Who's going to think to search them?"

"You know," Moore worked his jaw back and forth. "This may be completely out of left field, but what if this really isn't about messing up our radios."

Stewart turned to him. "What are you getting at, Colonel?"

Moore responded by pulling out a map of California and spreading it out on the ground. He placed rocks on the corners as McCain, Stewart and Schwarzkopf knelt around him.

"Where did Godzilla first come ashore? San Diego." He circled the city with his pencil. "Right where we have some our largest Navy and Marine Corps bases in the country. Then we go up the coast to L.A. Not only a big city, but home to March Air Force Base, where we keep a bunch of B-52s. Then he continues north and wipes out the Pacific Missile Test Range. Now Vandenberg is in his sites."

Stewart's face scrunched up. "Colonel. Are you suggesting Godzilla is deliberately attacking vital military installations?"

"Maybe he's not doing it deliberately. But what if someone's _guiding _him to these bases?"

"How is that even possible?" McCain shook his head. "Besides, what about all the little cities and towns he destroyed like El Cajon or Temecula. There was nothing of vital military importance in those places."

"Yeah, I know Godzilla's gone off the beaten path, but he always come back to destroy big cities _and _these bases."

Stewart looked to Moore. "So you're suggesting that paddywagon is somehow directing Godzilla to all these bases?"

"I know, General. I know it sounds pretty far-fetched."

"Far-fetched is an understatement. You're making me feel I landed in one of those insipid low-budget monster movies."

Stewart fell silent, staring at the map. McCain didn't know what to make of the general's expression. Hell, he didn't even know what to make of his very own thoughts. How could anyone make Godzilla destroy U.S. military bases? And who would it be?

_It's gotta be the Ruskis if it's anyone._

McCain sighed. It sounded insane. The Russians controlling Godzilla? There was no way they could do something like that.

_Just like there was no way they could build a hydrogen bomb or no way they could launch Sputnik into outer space._

Stewart let out an audible breath and slowly rose to his feet. McCain, Moore and Schwarzkopf did likewise. All eyes fixed on the actor/general.

The silence went on. McCain shifted on his feet. Did Stewart believe Moore's theory?

Finally, Stewart rotated his head left to right, taking them all in.

"Saddle up, fellas. Time to go paddywagon hunting."

* * *

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	10. Chapter 10

_ABOVE SANTA BARBARA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA_

_This is going to be impossible._

Jimmy Stewart tried to shove the negative thought out of his mind. But looking out the windows of his small plane he couldn't imagine actually finding one particular paddywagon among the hundreds of square miles of coastal plains and mountains stretching below him.

_You could have said no to this plan._

And then what? Head to San Francisco to join thousands of other soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines in another futile attack on Godzilla? Stewart didn't see the current tactic of "let's throw everything we have at Godzilla and hope for the best" working any time soon. They had to try something different.

Therefore, Stewart didn't see he had any choice but to go along with Colonel Moore's theory.

_And I'm still not one hundred percent convinced someone can actually come up with a way to control Godzilla._

Stewart stared at the controls of his Cessna 172 high-wing light airplane. He was risking a lot on a theory he harbored doubts about. After he gave the go-ahead to search for the paddywagon, Moore and his men "borrowed" a few Jeeps and a staff car from Vandenberg and headed to Santa Maria. There, Stewart and McCain "borrowed" a pair of Cessnas from the municipal airport.

_Borrowed hell. We stole them._ If they didn't find the paddywagon, or if they did and found nothing suspicious, Stewart could kiss _both_ his careers good-bye. He doubted the Air Force and the movie-going public would forgive him for stealing vehicles and planes for a wild goose chase.

_You better be right, Moore._

_Again, you could have said no._

Stewart turned northwest toward Guadalupe, peering out the window. Civilian vehicles slowly crawled along State Route One. He doubted the paddywagon would risk getting stuck on major highways jammed with evacuees. More likely they'd take sideroads.

He turned to the unshaven tan-skinned soldier in the seat next to him. Corporal Baker, one of Moore's men, acting as Stewart's observer.

Stewart parted his lips, ready to ask the man if he saw any sign of the paddywagon, but refrained. He'd already asked that at least half-a-dozen times, and always received the same negative reply. If Baker saw any sign of the paddywagon, he'd let him know.

_Of course, there's another way to tell if the damn thing's around._

"Whiskey Two, this is Whiskey One," he radioed McCain. "I'm continuing the search to the northwest. Still no joy. Over"

"Roger, Two. I'm still over Lima Papa." McCain used the code for the Los Padres National Forest. "No sign of Tango." That was the designation for the paddywagon.

"Keep at it. Out."

Stewart sighed. Not only had McCain not spotted anything, there was also no hint of the electronic interference he experienced when they came across the paddywagon. He prayed he'd hear it soon. Then he'd know the vehicle was close by.

_Even so, it'll still be hard to find._ He frowned as he stared out the window to the vast expanse below.

Guadalupe came into view. Not a very impressive town from the air. Stewart couldn't make out any tall buildings. Just a few roads led in and out of town. None of them were jammed. Heck, from the size of the place he doubted it would have taken long to evacuate.

"Whiskey Two, this is Whiskey One. Approaching Golf. Will make a couple passes and . . ."

Cracks and popped filled Stewart's headphones. That was followed by another sound.

An electronic flutter.

Stewart's heart sped up. He snapped his head toward Corporal Baker, who stared back with wide eyes.

"Eyes sharp, Corporal."

"Yes, Sir," the observer replied enthusiastically.

Stewart dropped a few hundred feet. He scanned all the roads around Guadalupe. A few vehicles sped up and down them. None resembled a paddywagon.

He passed over the town itself. A few cars drove up Guadalupe's main drag, headed out of town.

_C'mon, c'mon. Where are you?_

Stewart circled back and spied the area south of the town. Still no sign of . . .

"General!" Baker leaned forward in his seat. "I got something. Dirt road to the east of town."

Stewart glanced around the corporal. He spotted a snaking dust cloud on a dirt road bordered by chaparral. At the front of the cloud was a boxy vehicle.

He descended even more, coming at the truck from the opposite way. Seconds later he was past it.

"Is that the paddywagon?"

"Looks it." Baker still had his binoculars trained on the vehicle. "I know I saw the word 'police' on the side."

Stewart nodded. That had to be it.

He checked the radio again. The electronic flutter persisted.

_Well, we did plan for this._

As the paddywagon neared Guadalupe, Stewart climbed and swung the Cessna around. He then flew in tight circles, dropping his right wing so it pointed at the target vehicle.

Now he just hoped Moore or some of his men could see this from the ground.

**XXXXX**

"Captain! Look over there!"

Schwarzkopf felt Pete Albert's hand tap his shoulder. He turned to the ROTC cadet from UCLA, sitting in the rear of the Jeep. The muscular dark-haired 19-year-old pointed northeast. Schwarzkopf followed the young man's finger and brought up his binoculars.

In the distance, a Cessna 172 flew in tight circles, its right wing pointing toward the ground.

"I'll be damned." Schwarzkopf lowered his binoculars and quickly unfurled his map. He scanned it, then eyeballed the Cessna again.

"That's gotta be General Stewart's plane. Looks like he's just due east of Guadalupe."

He leaned over to the Jeep's driver, Private Witt, holding the map next to the steering wheel. Schwarzkopf directed him on which roads to take to get to the little town.

"And step on it."

Witt responded by mashing the pedal with his foot. The map nearly flew from Schwarzkopf's hands. He clutched the side of the windshield with one hand as Witt twisted the Jeep to the right and bounced up a dirt road. Twice Schwarzkopf nearly got thrown out of the Jeep.

"We're not gonna catch them if you get us all killed, Private."

"Yes, Sir."

Witt didn't slow down a bit.

**XXXXX**

Tension crushed Grigori Yazlov's shoulders. Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead. Every few seconds he glanced up at the small plane circling above them.

_It doesn't look like a military plane._

But if it was a civilian plane, why wasn't it flying north, away from Godzilla?

_Could it be CIA? FBI? Could they . . . could they know?_

Yazlov tried to swallow, but could produce no saliva.

"Dmitri. We may have a problem." He nodded to the sky.

Dmitri Azatoya stared out the windshield. "The plane?"

"Yes."

"You don't think . . . how could they know about the device?"

"I don't know!" Yazlov snapped.

"What do we do now?"

Yazlov didn't answer. He tried to fight through his anxiety and form a plan. They only carried revolvers and shotguns, like any _real_ American police officer would. Those wouldn't bring down the aircraft. And in this part of Santa Barbara County there didn't appear very many places they could duck into and hide. They certainly couldn't abandon the paddywagon. Without the device, Operation: Death Knell would fail.

_Think . . . think! _Yazlov clenched his teeth as a few dilapidated one-story homes appeared ahead of them. He glanced again at the small plane as they drove onto a paved road, past more small houses with fading paint and weed-choked front yards. Were American security forces closing in on them? Not that they'd be able to coordinate. Tests back in the Soviet Union revealed the device not only attracted Godzilla, but also interfered with radio transmissions up to ten kilometers away. That would work in their favor.

_But for how long?_

Even without radios, any ground or air forces could easily use the little plane as a beacon. Eventually they would be caught, or more likely destroyed.

Unless . . .

"We're heading south."

Azatoya's brow furrowed. "South? You do realize you'll be taking us _toward_ Godzilla."

"I know, dammit! It won't be long before we'll have more than just a single plane to contend with. If they want to chase us, I'll lead them right to Godzilla. With any luck, seeing that big lizard will scare them off."

"Seeing that big lizard will scare me, too. And what's to prevent him from roasting this truck, and us along with it."

"It's the best plan I have!" Yazlov turned and sneered at the heavier KGB agent. "If you don't like it . . ."

"Look out!"

Yazlov whipped his head to the front . . . and gasped.

An Army Jeep sped into the intersection.

**XXXXX**

"Holy shit!"

Schwarzkopf's lungs seized. The grill of the paddywagon filled his vision. He slid back in his seat, for all the good it would do.

_I'm dead. I'm dead._

The Jeep swerved. So did the paddywagon. A jolt shot through the Jeep. Schwarzkopf dropped his map and desperately clung to the windshield. The paddywagon roared past, the words SAN DIEGO POLICE DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Witt followed the vehicle with his head. "We found it!"

Schwarzkopf's eyes briefly regarded the crumpled right fender of the Jeep before turning to the paddywagon, which continued down the residential street. He suddenly noticed his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.

_I'm alive. I'm alive._

He watched the paddywagon drive further away.

Schwarzkopf shook his head. He turned to Witt, who still stared at the vehicle.

"Follow them, dammit!" Schwarzkopf slapped the soldier on the back of the helmet.

"Yes, Sir!" Witt gunned the engine and tore down the street.

Schwarzkopf pulled out the .45 pistol from his holster, while Cadet Albert brought up his M-14. Schwarzkopf sighed as he stared at his sidearm.

_So how do we stop that thing without damaging it?_

Colonel Moore had made it clear to all of them. The paddywagon had to be taken intact.

The wagon's tires screeched as it turned the corner onto another street of impoverished houses. Witt spun the wheel to match the sharp turn. Schwarzkopf felt the little vehicle go up on two wheels. He held his breath, staring at the asphalt flashing by him. What he wouldn't give for some sort of straps on his seat to keep him from flying out of the Jeep.

Wind screamed around them as Witt got the Jeep within ten feet of the paddywagon. It took another sharp left. Witt matched it.

"Pull in front of it!" Schwarzkopf yelled at Witt.

With a devilish grin, Witt jerked the Jeep left. Just before he could get alongside the paddywagon, it swung into the Jeep's path. Witt backed off and tried to go around the right side.

Schwarzkopf's eyes widened. He gazed at a chunky man leaning out the window, a revolver in his hand.

"Left! Left!"

Witt twisted the wheel left just as the chunky man fired. A sharp buzz went past Schwarzkopf.

The paddywagon drifted left. The chunky man came into view again and fired.

Schwarzkopf raised his .45 and fired two rounds. Both missed. He squinted, his eyes burning from the howling wind that battered his face.

The paddywagon took another sharp turn, white smoke flowing from its tires. Witt stayed right on its tail. The paddywagon raced into the deserted parking lot of a general store, went around the side of the building and bounced into a vacant lot. The Jeep followed, bucking on the uneven ground. Schwarzkopf held the side of the windshield in a death grip.

Both vehicles veered onto another residential street. The chunky man fired again. Schwarzkopf emptied his .45 at him. Every shot missed.

_This looks so much easier in the movies._

Cadet Albert's M-14 cracked behind Schwarzkopf as he withdrew another magazine.

The Jeep rattled as it hit a pothole.

The magazine flew out of Schwarzkopf's hand and spiraled toward the asphalt.

"Dammit!" He yanked out another magazine, his last, and shoved it into his pistol. He couldn't see the chunky man. Probably in the cab reloading.

Seconds later the man reappeared and shot at them twice. Schwarzkopf and Albert returned fired. Everyone held their fire as they turned another street. The chunky man leaned further out the window and fired. The bullet whizzed by.

Schwarzkopf's finger squeezed the trigger.

The Jeep hit a bump. His round missed wide.

He sneered, ignoring the dust particles gathering on his teeth. He leveled his .45 and held his breath.

_Please. No bumps. Just for a few moments._

Schwarzkopf squeezed the trigger until the pistol clicked empty.

The chunky man jerked. The revolver tumbled out of his hand. He slumped and fell out the window. His body twisted unnaturally as he struck the asphalt and bounced down the street.

"Nice shooting, Sir," Albert complemented him.

"More luck than good shooting, Cadet. Still, I'll take it."

The paddywagon took another dirt road that paralleled the shallow Santa Maria River. Schwarzkopf blinked and turned away as a dust cloud rolled over the Jeep. Witt swerved to the right, trying to shoot past the paddywagon. The other vehicle maintained a good clip.

Schwarzkopf growled, wondering how the hell they were going to stop the damn thing without wrecking it.

**XXXXX**

Stewart saw another Jeep and a staff car speeding through Guadalupe. Unfortunately none of them looked as though they'd be able to get in front of the paddywagon and box it in.

_I'd be able to coordinate it if the radio was working._

But it wasn't, and wishing it so would be a waste of time.

Still, he had the target in sight. The paddywagon had no place to hide. Eventually they'd get it.

_But what if my fuel starts getting low before then? Or what if we're still chasing it when Godzilla shows up?_

He watched the Jeep chase after the paddywagon. His mind raced. How could they end this quickly? What the hell could he even do in a little unarmed plane other than play aerial beacon to Colonel Moore's men?

Stewart scanned along the Santa Maria River. A few miles ahead he spotted an old wooden bridge spanning the river. He worked his jaw back and forth as he studied the road leading away from the bridge.

_Would he even try to cross it, or just keep going straight?_

Combat pilots would turn. Going straight just made you an easy target.

_But they're on the ground._

But the same principles would apply. Turning threw off the other guy's aim, forced him to adjust, bought you valuable time to survive.

Stewart swung away from the chase and headed west.

"General?" Baker turned to him. "Where are we going? The paddywagon's over there."

"I know, Corporal. I have a plan."

"What is it?"

Stewart gave the kid a lopsided smile. "One you better pray works."

He banked the plane sharply, pressing Baker's back against the side of the cockpit. Stewart lined up the Cessna with the road and came down fast. Baker gazed ahead with wide fearful eyes.

Stewart took quick glances at the chase. Both vehicles drew closer to the bridge.

_Please do what I want you to do._

His breaths quickening, Stewart watched the ground rush up toward him.

"Um, Sir? Sir!"

He ignored Baker's panicked cries and throttled back. Stewart gripped the controls as the tricycle landing gear struck the road. The entire plane quaked. Baker yelped.

Stewart popped the brakes as the paddywagon turned onto the bridge.

"Yes!"

He rolled the plane right up to the edge of the bridge. The paddywagon was three-quarters of the way across when it skidded to a halt. Stewart saw the driver look into his sideview mirror and back up. He got maybe ten feet before the Jeep blocked off the other side of the bridge. The paddywagon jerked to a stop.

"We got him!" Stewart slapped the instrument panel and turned to his observer. "Come on, Corporal!"

Stewart threw open the door while the propeller still spun. He drew his pistol and hurried toward the paddywagon. Baker ran up beside him, M-14 in hand.

The driver stared out the windshield at them, frozen in indecision. Stewart glanced at the passenger seat. No sign of his partner. Where the hell could he be?

Stewart's eyes flickered back to the driver.

The man brought up his revolver.

"FREEZE!!" Stewart leveled his .45 at the driver.

The man's hand continued to come up until the barrel was pressed against his head.

_Oh no._

He heard a muffled pop. Red liquid spattered against the cab's interior.

"Oh God!" Baker turned away, the color draining from his face.

Stewart bit down as a wave of nausea surged through him. He shook his head.

_Just like in the movies. The bad guy spy kills himself rather than spill his guts to the good guys._

The only difference was you didn't see this amount of blood in any movie.

He averted his gaze from the gore and walked to the rear of the vehicle, Baker in tow. That's when he noticed Captain Schwarzkopf and two other soldiers jogging toward him.

"Thanks for the assist, General. If I may say, that was a pretty ballsy thing to do."

"I can guarantee you they didn't teach me that at flight school."

Schwarzkopf grinned and made to go past him.

"Don't bother," said Stewart. "The driver's dead. Shot himself."

"You're kidding."

"I wish. Didn't he have a partner?"

"He did. The guy's roadkill now."

Stewart groaned. _Great. No one to interrogate._

"All right. Let's search this thing and see what we can find."

They gathered by the rear doors, guns at the ready. Schwarzkopf attempted to open them.

Locked.

Baker put the barrel of his M-14 against the lock and fired three rounds. He grabbed one door, Schwarzkopf the other, and flung them open.

"Wha . . . What the hell is that?" Albert gawked at the cylindrical device with a clear blue top.

Witt shook his head. "Don't look like a jukebox, that's for sure."

Stewart and Schwarzkopf studied the strange device in silence.

"You really think this thing is controlling Godzilla?" asked the Captain.

"Maybe," was all Stewart could say as he noticed a soft humming from the device.

More engines approached. Stewart spun around and saw an Air Force staff car and a Jeep roll to a stop near the bridge. Colonel Moore emerged from the car and led a handful of soldiers onto the bridge. Stewart and Schwarzkopf gave him a brief rundown of events. No surprise Moore was upset they couldn't take either of the fake cops alive. But at least they secured the paddywagon intact, along with . . . whatever the hell this thing was.

"So what do we do with it?" asked Cadet Albert.

"I'd say that's pretty obvious," Moore said. "If they used this to bring Godzilla to the U.S., _we_ use it to get him to leave."

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	11. Chapter 11

_SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA_

He had the device, he had the plan, but Lieutenant Colonel Hal Moore needed one more thing to make it work.

A plane.

_And one big enough to haul this contraption._

Moore stared out the window of the paddywagon as it rattled along the dirt road, followed by the other vehicles in his little convoy. He was certain the Air National Guard base in Fresno or LeMoore Naval Air Station in the San Joaquin Valley would have a transport plane he could lay his hands on. But he didn't want to lure Godzilla further inland where he would destroy more cities.

There'd certainly be cargo planes in San Francisco. But Moore figured that's where the "cops" had wanted to bring Godzilla before his men found the paddywagon. The whole idea was to get rid of the monster _before_ he reached Frisco.

Thankfully, the small town of San Luis Obispo had a little airport. Maybe they could find a plane there big enough to carry the device.

He'd already sent his radioman ahead to contact Lieutenant McCain to meet them at the regional airport. Moore hoped the young pilot would get there in time. Looking in the rearview mirror, he wasn't going to stay on the ground one second longer than he had to.

Moore scowled as he took in the view behind him. Huge clouds of smoke stained the horizon. Santa Maria was likely gone, probably Guadalupe as well.

He clenched his teeth and snorted. _Please let this work._

A large gray flash caught his eye. Moore snapped his head right and spotted a bulky twin-engine, twin-tailed aircraft. As a paratrooper, he recognized it immediately. A C-119 Flying Boxcar.

The cargo plane dropped lower and lower to the ground. Moore stared ahead of it as the one and two-story houses and buildings of San Luis Obispo came into view.

_It's landing at the airport._ He smiled, offering a quick, silent prayer of thanks to the man upstairs. Moore figured he used up his allotment of luck when they found the paddywagon. Now . . . now by some miracle they would have a plane that could easily carry the paddywagon.

The C-119 had already touched down by the time they reached the San Luis Obispo County Regional Airport. Moore checked the area around the entrance. No sign of his radioman Acosta, his partner Boddicker, or the Jeep they drove to get here. Where the hell could they be? Taking a piss? Grabbing a smoke while they waited for them? Maybe they headed over to greet the plane.

Moore spotted the C-119 at the end of the runway, its cargo ramp closing.

"What the hell?" Brow furrowed, he slid forward in his seat. Was the plane going to leave, so soon after it landed?

He scanned the perimeter of the runway. About two dozen planes were lined up wingtip-to-wingtip. None of them looked big enough to haul the device.

Moore held his breath as the C-119 began to roll down the runway.

"Get in front of that plane!" He shouted at the driver.

The young private, a lanky round-faced boy named Ted Gentry, stared in shock at Moore. "Excuse me, Sir?"

"Get in front of that damn plane! Don't let it take off!"

Gentry's Adam's Apple bobbed up and down. "Y-Yes, Sir."

He started toward the runway. Moore's jaw tightened as the C-119 picked up speed. He whipped his head toward Gentry, then peered at the speedometer.

They were only going around 45.

"Dammit, step on it!" Moore swung his leg over and stomped on Gentry's right foot, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

"Jesus!" The private's jaw hung open as the paddywagon's engine roared. Thankfully the kid had the presence of mind to keep the vehicle aimed ahead of the C-119. The loud drone of the big Pratt & Whitney radial engines vibrated Moore's skull. The plane's bulbous nose filled his vision as they drew closer to it. He couldn't help but lean back in his seat, the fear of being crushed overwhelming him.

"Cut the wheel! Cut the wheel!"

The paddywagon swerved. Moore banged his shoulder against the door. He ignored the brief, sharp pain and looked out the window.

The C-119 was right on top of them.

"Don't stop!" He screamed at Gentry. "Don't slow down!"

The Private just nodded, all the color gone from his face. He practically hyperventilated as he gazed into his sideview mirror.

Thankfully, he kept up his speed.

Moore grimaced. The noise of the engines was deafening. He couldn't imagine more than a few feet separated the paddywagon from the C-119's nose.

"Sir! We're about to run out of runway!"

"I don't care! We don't stop until that plane stops!"

The C-119 veered left. Gentry matched the turn. The plane tried to go right. Gentry blocked it again.

_C'mon, c'mon._ _You're not gonna have enough room. When will you realize . . ._

Moore sucked down a surprised breath as the C-119 slowed. The paddywagon pulled away while the plane jolted and rolled to a stop.

"Back up! Back up! Back up!" Moore ordered.

Gentry threw the paddywagon into reverse. He stopped with a squeal of tires a few feet from the plane's nose. By now the staff car and the Jeeps from Moore's convoy converged on the C-119.

Moore flung open the door and jumped out, circling around the plane to give the spinning, roaring props a wide berth. He just started to make for the rear when the cargo ramp lowered.

Ten men in olive drab uniforms rushed out of the plane, a curious mix of U.S Marines and Air Force security personnel. They formed a semi-circle around the ramp, M-14s and M-3 "Grease Guns" raised.

"Hold your fire!" Moore hollered over the engines even as they decelerated. "Hold your fire!"

He looked past the USMC/USAF squad. General Stewart, Captain Schwarzkopf and the rest of their men also halted.

"What the hell's going on here?" A heavyset man with sagging jowls and the stars of a Navy Rear Admiral stomped down the ramp and glared at Moore. "Do you realize you have just interfered with a flight vital to national security? Explain yourself!"

"Sir, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Harold Moore, U.S. Army. My men and I have secured a device that is being used to guide Godzilla up the California coast."

The Admiral drew his head back. "My God. Those two idiots were right."

"Excuse me?" Moore canted his head.

"Two soldiers showed up here a while ago, spouting this crazy story about weird machines attracting Godzilla to military bases. I thought they escaped from the loony bin. I didn't realize they weren't the only crazies on the loose."

"We're not crazy, Admiral." Stewart cautiously approached the ring of security troops. "I'm Brigadier General Jimmy Stewart, and what those men told you is true."

Anger lines creased the Admiral's face as he stared at Stewart.

"I'm sorry for the . . . unusual tactic," the actor/pilot continued. "But we have to have that plane to lure Godzilla out to sea."

"Even if I did believe you, which I don't, there's no way you're getting this plane."

"But, Admiral. This is our chance to -"

"Do you even realize who I am?" Now the Admiral's entire body shook. "I'm Admiral Warren Van Huse, commander of the Pacific Missile Test Center. I barely got out of there alive when Godzilla showed up. We've been holed up here since yesterday trying to arrange transportation."

"Fine. You have your transportation." Moore cautiously stepped closer, hands still raised. "Just let us borrow your plane so we can . . ."

"What? Risk my life? Didn't you hear what base I ran? Do you have an inkling of the sort of knowledge I have in my head? All the projects that were destroyed when Godzilla attacked? The country is going to need what I have up here," Van Huse jabbed a finger against his temple, "to rebuild everything we lost. America can't afford to lose me."

Moore groaned. _Just what we need. An admiral absorbed in his own self-importance._

"Admiral." Stewart said forcefully. "If you don't give us that plane, we may not have a country left for you to rebuild your missiles. Getting Godzilla out of here . . ."

"I am not going to stand here and argue with a damn actor playing fighter pilot! I have to be evacuated now!" He whirled around to one of the marines. "Captain Little. Move that damn truck. The rest of you, detain these men and tie them up with those other two nuts."

"Yes, Sir." The stout Captain Little belted out his response.

He took two steps before Moore blurted, "Captain Schwarzkopf! _Do not_ allow anyone near that truck!"

The burly captain and the soldiers behind him all raised their weapons. Van Huse's security people tensed and leveled their weapons.

"You are threatening a United States Navy admiral!" Van Huse raged. "You are jeopardizing the security of this nation!"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but if anyone's jeopardizing national security, it's you." Moore fixed his gaze on Van Huse. "The longer Godzilla is in this . . ."

"This is treason! You're all working for the Commies! I'll see to it you're all put in front of a firing squad!"

Moore closed his eyes and groaned. _And he calls us nutcases?_

"Admiral, you have to . . ."

A familiar roar echoed in the distance. Everyone turned their heads south.

"You hear that, Admiral? Godzilla's coming. He's going to destroy this airport and the entire town around it. And he likely won't stop there. Unless you want to see more Americans die, let us have this plane so we can stop him."

Van Huse bit his lower lip. Another distant roar carried across the air. The Admiral turned south, then looked back at Moore.

"Captain Little. If Colonel Moore and his people do not lower their weapons in five seconds, you are authorized to use deadly force."

"Admiral, don't do this."

"One!" Little yelled.

"You're throwing away our only chance to stop Godzilla!" Stewart exclaimed.

"Two!"

Sweat trickled down Moore's forehead. They couldn't have come this far . . .

"Three!"

. . . to be stopped by their own countrymen.

"F-"

A loud buzz engulfed the air around them. All heads turned toward the other end of the runway. A little Cessna 172 was coming in for a landing.

_McCain?_

Moore glanced back at the security people. Most of them whipped their heads back and forth between Admiral Van Huse and the Cessna.

Moore judged the distance between him and the nearest guard. Ten feet at the most. Risky, but he had no choice.

Godzilla roared again. Another distraction. Just what Moore needed.

He covered the distance in a few strides. A USAF guard looked up, shock covering his face. He just started to raise his M-3 when Moore tackled him. Both men tumbled to the ground. Moore punched the guard twice in the kidneys, stunning him.

A whirlwind of humanity swirled around him. Schwarzkopf and his men charged the USMC and USAF guards. Rifles and fists flashed through the air. A marine spun around, blood pouring from his busted mouth. Schwarzkopf gave one guard a body slam that would make Classy Freddie Blassie proud. One of Moore's soldiers took a rifle butt to the gut and dropped to his knees. Before the marine guard could follow up, Private Witt stunned the man with an upper cut.

Admiral Van Huse turned to run back into the C-119. General Stewart grabbed the fat man's shoulder, spun him around and belted him in the jaw. The Admiral stumbled and fell on his side.

Within a minute, the security guards were all on the ground, covered by Schwarzkopf and his soldiers.

"Did I just miss something?"

Moore snapped his head in the direction of the voice as he pushed himself to his feet. McCain stood a couple feet away, observing the scene in confusion.

"We just wanted to borrow this plane, but sometimes just saying please doesn't work." Moore grinned at the Navy pilot.

Another roar rolled over the airport, much closer than the last.

"All right, no time to waste." Moore brushed himself off and looked to his men. "Witt. Get the paddywagon and bring it around here. Sergeant Chavez. Take some men and secure the plane. Albert. Get these men off the runway." He nodded to the security contingent. "Then send a couple men to find Acosta and Boddicker."

Men sprang into action. Soldiers hauled the security guards off the ground and shoved them to the side of the runway. Chavez and three soldiers escorted the C-119's crew off the plane. The paddywagon whipped around the cargo plane and idled near the ramp.

"You okay there, General?" Moore noticed Stewart rubbing his right hand.

"I think I busted a knuckle. You never see this when they fight in the movies."

"If I may say, Sir, for someone who usually plays nice guys, you can definitely throw one hell of a punch."

Stewart laughed along with Moore.

Another roar cut off their laughter.

"Can you fly this thing?" Moore nodded at the C-119.

"Shouldn't be a problem." Stewart turned to McCain. "Lieutenant. Looks like you're going to be my co-pilot."

"Just so you know, Sir, I've never flown a cargo plane before."

Another roar filled the air. All three men stared to the south. A dark lumbering form appeared over the horizon.

"Thankfully," McCain added, "I'm a quick learner."

"Let's go, people!" Moore hollered. "Move! Move! Move!"

Witt drove the paddywagon up the ramp as Albert and his squad appeared with Acosta and Boddicker. Stewart and McCain restarted the engines as Moore and a couple other soldiers tied down the paddywagon. Schwarzkopf led the rest of their men into the C-119.

Moore glared down at Van Huse, lying beside the ramp rubbing his hurt jaw. He considered bringing the Admiral and his men with them. They certainly had enough room. But he couldn't risk them causing any more trouble.

He stood over the Admiral, who looked up at Moore with fiery eyes.

"Admiral, if you and your men want to live, you'll take our vehicles and get the hell out of Dodge. Good luck."

With that, Moore hurried up the ramp and hit the button to close it. He then weaved around his men toward the cockpit as the plane rolled forward. He stared out one of the windows. A chill went up and down his spine.

Godzilla loomed even larger.

Moore willed the plane to go faster, willed Godzilla not to unleash his radioactive breath.

He felt the C-119 begin to rise.

A jet of blue flame shot out of Godzilla's mouth.

Moore tensed, his mind filled with images of Julia and the kids.

A huge fireball blossomed over San Luis Obispo.

The C-119 banked sharply. Seconds later Stewart made a tight left turn.

Atomic fire streaked over them.

Moore's heart pounded as Stewart continued to throw the plane into erratic turns. Another jet of flame just missed their tail.

Godzilla vanished from Moore's line of sight, replaced by the shimmering expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Stewart continued to jink the cargo plane like it was a fighter. Was Godzilla still firing at them?

Moore made his way to the rear of the plane. He lowered the ramp. A hurricane wind blasted through the cargo hold. Moore squinted as he watched Godzilla turn away from San Luis Obispo and plod toward the ocean.

"He's following us!"

Land gave away to water. Eventually Moore had to use binoculars to check on Godzilla. The monster waded into the water.

Moore headed up to the cockpit and informed Stewart and McCain of the news.

"I may have to slow down or fly a horseshoe pattern a couple times. We have to keep Godzilla in sight to make sure he's following us . . . and do it from far enough away so he can't barbeque us."

"So how long do we let him follow us?" asked McCain.

"I want to get at least two hundred miles away from California," Stewart replied. "I don't want to take a chance of that lizard turning around and heading back to the U.S."

The red orb of the sun began to sink below the horizon when the C-119 reached the 200-mile mark. The only way for Moore to see Godzilla was through binoculars, and even then the monster just looked like an indistinct black lump. Not that he'd complain. From that far away Godzilla's fiery breath couldn't reach them.

"This oughta be good enough. Time to dump our cargo."

Moore and several soldiers unfastened the tie-downs securing the paddywagon, then gave it a little push. The vehicle rolled down the ramp and tumbled through the air. Moore, Schwarzkopf and the others watched it grow smaller and smaller until it struck the water. Through his binoculars Moore observed Godzilla head straight for the spot where the paddywagon sank. As soon as he reached it, he submerged. Moore kept his binoculars fixed on that spot for several minutes.

Godzilla did not resurface.

He lowered the binoculars and grinned. "Sayonara, sucker."

_**NEXT: **__THE CONCLUSION_


	12. Chapter 12

_THE KREMLIN_

_MOSCOW, USSR_

_TWO DAYS LATER_

_What could have gone wrong?_

Yuri Andropov sat in his darkened office, rolling a pen back and forth in his fingers. Godzilla had been well on his way to San Francisco, where thousands of troops, hundreds of planes and dozens of warships waited to engage him. A huge blow could have been dealt to the American military.

Then suddenly, Godzilla marched back to the Pacific.

Every attempt to contact the agents guiding the monster failed. Had they been killed? Worse, had they been captured? Did the Americans know everything?

The General Secretary was taking no chances. He ordered every scrap of paper with information regarding Operation: Death Knell burned. All those involved in the project, as well as their families, had been sent on one-way trips to the Siberian gulags.

Everyone but Andropov.

_My time will come soon enough._ You couldn't bury a failure if the person who initiated it still lived.

Andropov wondered how it would happen. Would they take him to a gulag and prolong his suffering? Maybe a bullet in the head in some dank basement at KGB Headquarters.

_No. It won't be quick for me._ He had promised Khrushchev a way to crush the Americans forever, and failed to make good on that promise. The General Secretary would make sure he suffered for that.

Muffled thuds passed through the door. Footsteps . . . approaching his office.

_It's time._

Andropov fingered the fake cufflink on the left sleeve of his jacket. It opened, revealing a small capsule.

He drew a deep breath. His hand began to tremble. He didn't want to do this.

_You're going to die anyway. At least do it on your terms._

Steeling himself, he popped the cyanide capsule in his mouth.

The door burst open. Two guards in green overcoats stood in the doorway, pistols aimed at Andropov.

"Party Secretariat Yuri . . ."

The guard was still talking as Andropov bit down on the capsule.

**XXXXX**

_THE WHITE HOUSE_

_WASHINGTON, D.C._

_MAY, 1963_

_I can't believe I'm actually here._

Even as Lieutenant John McCain maintained his ramrod straight posture, his eyes darted all over the Oval Office. He studied every detail of the desk, the blue rug with the eagle logo under him, the high window and the trees and gardens outside. He burned it all into his memory. After all, when would a lowly lieutenant ever have another opportunity to be in this room?

Even more astounding than standing in the Oval Office was the man who stood in front of him.

"Lieutenant McCain . . ." President John F. Kennedy reached out to pin a medal to his chest. "For your heroic actions during the Godzilla attack, I hereby award you the Navy Cross."

"Thank you, Mister President."

Kennedy shot him his famous charming smile as he shook his hand. "I'm sure your father would be proud."

"That he would be." McCain suppressed a frown. He wished his father could be on hand to witness this. Unfortunately, this ceremony had to be conducted in secret.

Kennedy stepped back and took in all of them. General Stewart, with his new Air Force Cross. Colonel Moore, Captain Schwarzkopf and their small band of soldiers, all with their just awarded Distinguished Service Crosses.

"I don't think I can come up with any words to express just how deeply I appreciate everything you men have done for this country. Even though we suffered great damage and terrible loss of life during the Godzilla attack, had it not been for your courageous actions, a lot more people would be dead, and more of our cities would be in ruin."

"Thank you, Mister President," Stewart said. "But we were just doing our duty."

Kennedy nodded. "I'd say you went beyond the call of duty. It's just a shame the public can't be made aware of the role you played in protecting this country. But because of the circumstances involved . . ."

Inwardly, McCain frowned. He hated the fact they'd all been sworn to secrecy regarding the fake cops who had guided Godzilla up the California coast. The whole world should know what those damn Russian s. had done.

_Okay, no one ever said specifically that it was the Russians, but who the hell else could it be?_

But whether or not he agreed with the order didn't matter. He was an officer in the United States Navy. He was duty-bound to obey it.

He sighed softly and shifted his eyes back to the President, who currently joked with General Stewart about introducing him to Hollywood starlets.

_With all due respect, Mister President, you have more important things to do than drool over Janet Leigh or Angie Dickenson._

Two months. Two months had passed since the Russians used Godzilla to lay waste to Southern California. And what had America's response been? Nothing. Hundreds of thousands dead, numerous cities burned to the ground, yet not so much as a single dilapidated shack in the middle of Siberia had been blown up in retaliation. Hell, the public didn't even know the truth. They just assumed Godzilla attacked California of his own accord.

Imagine their reaction if they knew the truth.

_He can't let them get away with it._ This was the President who stared down the Russians and made them blink during the Cuban Missile Crisis. How could Kennedy even consider letting the Russians off the hook with half of California in ruin?

_If I were President, Russia would be glowing in the dark by now._

But he wasn't President. He had to forget about that pipe dream and have faith that the man who really held the office would strike back at the Commies.

McCain hoped his faith wasn't misplaced.

**XXXXX**

_VLADIVOSTOK, USSR_

_JUNE, 1968_

"Any word from the _Orsha?"_

"Negative, Comrade Captain."

A scowl marred the fleshy face of Captain Vitaly Timoleivu. It had been ten minutes since the little Riga-class patrol vessel radioed that they detected a large underwater object moving toward the naval base.

Since then, no one had heard a word from _Orsha_.

Timoleivu glanced out the bridge windows of the _Plamenny. _Two SO I patrol boats plied through the water on either side of his Kotlin-class destroyer. No doubt more ships were headed toward _Orsha's_ last known position.

"Sonar!" Timoleivu turned his pudgy frame toward the gaunt-looking young man pressing a pair of headphones against his ears.

"I'm picking up some kind of . . . disturbance, Comrade Captain. It doesn't sound like a submarine."

"Then what could it . . ."

A fountain of water rose in the distance. Timoleivu stepped closer to the bridge window. "Well, whatever it is, it's dead." He grinned. "Looks like it hit one of our mines."

Seconds later another frothy eruption rose from the cold waters of the Pacific. Then another . . . and another.

Timoleivu's face contorted. Could a whole fleet of submarines be converging on Vladivostok?

Another mine went off.

"Sonar. Report."

The sonarman shook his head. "Those explosions have churned up the water so much I can't make out anything."

"Try harder! I have to know what's setting off tho-"

Another plume of water exploded in front of him. For a terrifying second Timoleivu thought a tidal wave suddenly appeared.

_Plamenny _reared back. Timoleivu's arms flailed in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. He failed, falling to the metal floor. A sharp pain seared his back. He grimaced and rolled to his side.

"Captain!" a panicked voice cried out.

"I'm fine! Concentrate on your duties!"

Timoleivu sneered as he pushed himself up. How undignified. The captain of a ship falling on the floor like a common drunk. What would his men think? How much respect had he lost?

He straightened his uniform and looked around the bridge. Every man stared out the window with wide eyes.

"What's wrong with you men? What the hell are you all gaping at?"

Timoleivu spun around . . . and gasped. His entire body trembled as he gazed at the gigantic reptilian shape before him.

Godzilla's roar shook the bridge. The windows shattered. Timoleivu turned away and threw up his arms as shards of glass pelted him. A dull hum filled his ears.

Despite it, he still heard a second thunderous roar from Godzilla.

Heart hammering, he peered out the broken window. The bitter cold air buffeted him as he watched a jet of blue flame shoot out Godzilla's mouth. The SO I to his right vanished in a fireball.

Timoleivu whimpered as _Plamenny_ bobbed closer to the monster. He didn't even care how it looked to the rest of the crew. Many of them openly cried anyway.

A distant voice called to him from the back of his mind, telling him to turn the ship, to bring all guns to bear.

Terror froze him to inaction. All Captain Timoleivu could do was watch Godzilla draw back his arm, then drive it toward the ship.

A horrendous crash filled the world. Something very hard and very heavy struck Timoleivu.

**XXXXX**

"Looks like they're putting up a good fight."

Vince Tagliani turned to his beefy partner, Russell Byers. The two CIA operatives stood on a hill overlooking Vladivostok, gazing at the fireworks display of tracers and missiles zipping through the air. Godzilla waded through the harbor, practically ignoring the barrage. A jet of atomic fire washed over the Kynda-class cruiser _Varyag._ The ship exploded into nothingness. Godzilla then lifted an enormous foot and brought it down on the Kanin-class cruiser _Uporny._ The ship crumpled and vanished from sight.

Tagliani smiled. Five years. For five years they had planned and prepared for this day. It had been an audacious task set forth by an audacious President. Some in Project Vidar didn't think it could be done. It had been hard enough for the U.S. Navy salvage fleet to recover the paddywagon carrying what had been referred to as the Godzilla Guidance Device. Then the project scientists had to take the severely damaged GGD and reverse engineer it. They also had to make sure the signal mimicking bird calls didn't interfere with radio transmissions. That's what led to the Russians' failure when they launched Godzilla against the United States.

Tagliani smiled wide as Godzilla came ashore, crushing buildings under his feet. A blast of atomic fire set a huge portion of the Soviet Navy's Pacific Fleet Headquarters afire. Seconds later a gigantic fireball ascended into the sky. The very air around Tagliani trembled from the shockwave.

"Damn. He must have hit a fuel dump," noted Byers.

Tagliani continued to observe Godzilla stomp through the base, smashing buildings and breathing fire. Flames swept across the facility. Dark columns of smoke floated over the city.

"A shame JFK isn't around to see this."

"Yeah." Byers nodded. "But five years seems a long time to wait to retaliate."

"It's worth it if the Russians think this is just a natural act."

Godzilla lumbered through the flames that consumed the naval base. He made his way into the city, shooting one fiery breath after another. Buildings vanished beneath waves of fire.

"Good-bye Vladivostok," Byers chuckled.

Tagliani slapped his partner on the shoulder and headed back to the truck carrying the GGD. "Let's shake a leg, Russell. It's four thousand miles to Moscow."

THE END –

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_The name "Vidar" comes from Norse Mythology. Vidar is the Norse god associated with vengeance, as he avenged his father, Odin's, death by killing the Wolf Fenrir during Ragnarok. If you liked this story, you'll enjoy my original alien invasion novel "Dark Wings," available in paperback from Amazon and as an e-book at smashwords-dot-com._


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